Between Feathers and Blood

It was not the kind of morning that matched her feelings, nor was the world merely the sad reflection she seemed to carry wherever she went. Sunlight poured through the glass, flooding the room with warmth beneath a cloudless, deep blue sky. It brushed softly against her face. She closed her eyes and slowly let her head fall back. Her maternal grandparents had migrated to the United Kingdom from Thailand many years ago, and she was the living image of her grandmother Mali in her youth—or so everyone had always said. She had beautiful almond-shaped dark eyes, pale skin, and long black hair that shone like polished jet, cascading over her shoulders in an endless waterfall. To her, however, it was all painfully ordinary. At first glance, nothing particularly remarkable seemed to frame the young woman. And yet, she had been born with a gift that many described as granted by the gods themselves. As a child she had been quiet and timid, speaking little. But after her grandmother’s death—and under the relentless pressure of her parents as her career began to rise—something inside her changed. Few people had ever seen her smile. But when she played the cello, something extraordinary happened. She transported herself—and everyone listening—to another world. Her deep, resonant tones guided the imagination across forgotten times and places, spaces that felt strangely personal to each listener. Every note carried something almost spiritual within it. It sounded surreal. And perhaps it was. Her hands created magic alongside the instrument. A magic both simple and sacred, celestial yet deeply earthly. With quiet elegance she gathered her hair, tying it high with an elastic band. A rebellious strand inevitably slipped across her forehead, and she brushed it away with a familiar gesture. Then she looked at the instrument the way someone looks at a lover. Or at someone they love who also causes them pain. A quiet sadness lingered in her eyes. She closed them before touching the tense strings, letting her fingertips recognize their texture. Slowly, she drew the cello close, resting it between her legs like a lover returning to an embrace. She inhaled softly. Then she placed the bow upon the strings. The first movement was gentle. And just like that, the music began. A harmonious rhythm unfolded, and she seemed to dissolve into the finely crafted wood beneath her hands. Suspended at that moment, it felt as if the world outside no longer existed. Her parents had done everything to make her what she had become. In their culture—and in their family—one was expected to be the best. Otherwise, one simply gave up. The Suksi family did not believe in the latter. From a young age she had been pushed to give everything, and more than everything, without protest. Inside her, an entire universe of emotions had been forced into silence. Only music allowed them to escape. Years of lessons and the finest conservatories shaped her into one of Europe’s most celebrated concert cellists. By the time she reached adulthood, the name Victoria Suksi was known across the continent. Audiences called her “The Masterful Vicky Suksi.” Her name appeared in golden lettering across the marquees of prestigious concert halls. Interviews were rare—almost nonexistent—and the mystery surrounding her only fueled public fascination. Thousands paid extraordinary sums to attend her performances. Many others would have paid just as much to learn about the woman behind them. But reaching her had become nearly impossible. The Masterful Vicky was unique. Exceptional. But she was also someone who, somewhere behind the fame, had quietly lost herself. Some nights she cried alone until exhaustion pulled her into sleep. Her parents had spent their lives demanding more from her than offering love or attention to the things she truly needed. Deep down, she only wanted them to feel proud of her—proud of who she was, the way they had always seemed proud of her sister. With every tour, pieces of her life had disappeared. First the life of an ordinary child. Then the life of a normal young woman. Each success demanded another sacrifice, another fragment of herself left behind. Her light—so visible to the world—slowly dimmed as she grew older. Only the cello remained beside her. She and her older sister Rislen had never known a normal childhood. But where Vicky retreated inward, Rislen seemed to shine effortlessly. She was known for her calm spirit, a brilliant mind who excelled at science and nearly everything she pursued. Awards, medals, and academic diplomas filled an entire room of the family home. She was always smiling. Always full of energy. And undeniably beautiful. The perfect blend of Thai and Indonesian heritage. By adulthood, Rislen had become an accomplished surgeon, admired not only for her intelligence but for her warmth and empathy. While Rislen grew brighter with every passing year, Vicky did the opposite. She hid beneath the hood of her dark coat and behind sorrowful melodies. She avoided conversation. Avoided eye contact. Avoided smiling. Without her cello, she hardly felt like a person at all. Without the orchestra, she was not herself. That night, returning home after an entire day of rehearsals, reminded her painfully of another night long ago. The night everything had changed. The night her life had become something far darker. Cold air pressed against the windows of the luxurious car as it carried her through the quiet streets. The sky outside had deepened into indigo, and the first stars began to appear. She watched them silently. Her eyes blurred with tears. Her hands trembled. Only then did she realize they were clenched tightly into fists. Her breathing grew uneven. Every so often she glanced at the rearview mirror, making sure the driver—always vigilant—had not noticed the familiar signs of another anxiety attack. She pulled back the sleeves of her coat. Pale scars crossed her wrists in faint pink lines over visible veins. Quickly she buried her face in her hands and leaned back into the seat, trying to silence the relentless storm of thoughts filling her mind. Just as she had learned in therapy, she forced herself to breathe slowly. One. Two. Three. Since losing her family, life had lost its meaning. What remained was a distant existence filled with quiet suffering. Though time had passed, she had only partially recovered from the deepest waves of depression. Her manager—who was also her uncle and her only living relative—insisted that music was her salvation. It was, he often reminded her, what her parents would have wanted. In the end, music became the only way she could still feel connected to them. Whenever she performed, she imagined them sitting in the front row, watching her. Listening. Waiting. That was why, over the last two years, her performances had grown even more powerful—why audiences left her concerts in tears. They believed they were witnessing genius. What they were truly hearing was grief. Her life had become a quiet routine of solitude, melancholy, and medication. The enormous glass mansion greeted her with silence. White walls. Clean lines. Impeccable modern design. Everything about it was beautiful. And completely empty. She walked across the polished floors in her worn black Converse sneakers, hands buried in the pockets of her coat. Reaching the kitchen, she pressed a small remote. Classical music filled the house, the sound of strings echoing softly through the open spaces, pushing her thoughts a little further away. She opened a drawer. Inside were rows of pills arranged carefully by color and by day of the week. She swallowed two with a glass of water from the sleek steel faucet. Then she glanced toward the doorway. Her driver stood there, silent as always, watching carefully. Her uncle paid him well for that. To accompany her. To observe. To make sure she stayed alive. From the moment she woke up until the moment she fell asleep. She had known him almost her entire life. Mr. Hunt was British in every possible sense of the word. Tall. Blond. Very pale. His round eyes were a light, almost icy blue. On the index finger of his left hand he wore a large silver ring set with a purple stone. Beside it rested a simple wedding band, though Vicky had never known him to have a wife or children. Over time he had simply become part of the household. Part of the family. Her bodyguard. Her silent companion. According to her psychiatrist, perhaps even her savior. They rarely spoke. Yet without him, there were many moments when her suffering might have ended differently. He never judged her. Never questioned her actions. He simply watched. And understood more than she realized. As the sedatives slowly began to take effect, Vicky drifted out into the garden and sank into one of the white armchairs beneath the open sky. Above her, the stars stretched endlessly. Without a word, Mr. Hunt stepped forward and lit the fire pit at the center of the patio. Flames flickered softly in the ceramic bowl, casting warm light across the glass walls of the house. He moved with calm precision. Time seemed not to touch him. Vicky watched him for a moment without interest, then tilted her head back toward the sky. She began counting the stars one by one. Gradually the powerful medication did its work. The noise inside her mind began to fade. Her thoughts slowed. Her feelings dulled. Her eyes drifted closed. Somewhere deep inside, she almost wished they would never open again. At that exact moment, a shooting star crossed the sky from one end of the horizon to the other.