What symphony surrounds me?
No concert hall
No pinned, white cuffs
Violins
Or tight pressed lips
But the hum within my chest
Aches the same
His heart pulsed in his ears, underwater aboveground, unceasingly pounding, present: the metronome to uncontainable chaos. The rapid movement of his pupils, darting to follow symbol crashes, rippled like fluid waves across tightly sealed lids, and his fingers twitched as if longing to lift, swipe, and conduct the discordance. But he didn't move. He only listened and let what was become what he wanted.
A bass drum keeping time for strings breaking like bones-
Crack!
The piercing screams were
Silence.
Pauses between hollow and hollowing notes. The truth behind the lie told to his sons who were beat on and now bled. They were the instruments and the symphony, the child of beautiful and twisted dreams.
Then, singing.
Roderich's eyes sprung open at the rebellious melody, unyielding to the mechanized score that surrounded and swept them in.
Briefly, before the haze cleared, a smile flitted across his chapped lips that cracked. A slight of blood peaked and descended, leaving a staining line down his chin. How funny to be smiling against such horror and how painful to find the comedy in its absurdity.
Below the chaos some song still held itself together. He wanted to laugh. As bullets sounded closer and more rapid, the singer did not waver. The song remained static.
The smile disappeared.
A song that fought the truth but a song with no feeling.
His head snapped side to side, dislodging the dirt that had settled on his neck, but he could not find the song's owner.
Admittance.
He didn't try. He didn't want to find the owner, some half-dead soldier writhing in a ditch, singing of his wife and his loss.
He'd opened his eyes but somehow remained blind.
More gunshots. A cry.
The song stopped.
Author's Note: A story on Austria, Hungary, Italy, family, war, and "La Rondine." To be continued.