I stared at the words on the screen, disbelief and anger mingling with despair.
The insults were endless:
[Frank Carmichael, a piano prodigy? More like a two-bit fraud.]
[Disgusting. Destroying other people’s relationships and playing the victim? Get lost.]
[You're an embarrassment to all the great pianists in the world! Why aren’t you dead yet?]
It felt like the entire world had turned against me. I looked at her, my voice trembling, barely audible over the lump in my throat.
“How could you…?” My voice cracked, and I felt tears welling up in my eyes.
She faltered for a moment, noticing my shallow breathing and my pale, clammy face.
"Can’t you control your strength?" she barked at one of her bodyguards, smacking him across the face.
Then, in an almost contradictory gesture, she crouched down, helped me up, and called for a doctor.
“If you had just apologized earlier,” she said softly, “none of this would’ve happened.”
I stared at her, my chest heaving. My phone buzzed incessantly in my pocket, vibrating with hateful calls and notifications.
One after another, they poured in:
[Why aren’t you dead yet?]
[Go kill yourself, loser.]
[You’re a disgusting fraud. Rot in hell.]