Villains And Violins
The man held his violin softly in his hands, gently, as other people would maybe hold a child.
He lifted his instrument to the crook of his neck, and silence overcame him. This was what he really worked for, the moments of peace when he got home before he was called out yet again due to the stupidity of other people.
And the cruelty, of course. He'd have no work if people weren't cruel to each other.
The silence laid itself around him like a silky robe. He breathed it in noiselessly, then exhaled again. Peace. In reality, there was no peace. Not ever. He knew. Peace and love and heaven was an illusion people invented out of sheer desperation they weren't even aware of.
How horrible the world was to him. And nobody saw. No one, ever, bloody saw.
Idiots. The thought wasn't exactly uttered with more than a frustrated hiss. To him, the world was that, and nobody even tried to care. His work was done? Sod off.
The long and pale fingers of his left hand pushed down the delicate strings of his violin, the wire biting lightly into his skin. Just as usual as the feeling was to him, as helpful was the slight pain of it. Pain - noun; highly unpleasant physical sensation caused by illness or injury/mental suffering or distress.
God, just how he hated emotions.
Though he could not deny he had them, as much as he wanted that fact to be wrong.
He pushed the strings down harder. The bow lay lightly in his right hand, waiting for it's go. With a soft sigh that was so different to his internal anger, he brought the bow down to the strings.
The first note was a low, straining tone. One might say it was similar to the feeling of stones in his stomach, or the dull throbbing in the back of his head, but it really wasn't about that. These moments were the only ones of peace in his life - just him and his music. They kept telling him he had to talk to other people, socialize, get friends.
"Dull", he'd always reply and they'd roll their eyes, giving each other the "Why does he have to be such a freak?"-look.
It wasn't like he didn't understand what they were talking about, he only found it so utterly pointless. Or at least, that's what it was to him for the past 30 years. He was dedicated to his work and only to his work. Why go to a pub and lay everything down when a case still wasn't solved? He really hadn't expected it for working together with police to be like that.
High, searing notes found their way into his play, like the cries he never lets out. The man goes on playing, ignoring how his fingers are working themselves, leaving his usually ever-active brain behind.
High notes and low notes, entwined into a painfully beautiful tune kept coming from his instrument. This was the only way he let his feeling get to the outside - the only time where that little huge chain around him opened. The pace was slow at first, but he lost control of it without notice. His notes raced from his fingers, the delicate bow running over the strings like a man running for his life, not knowing where to go.
By God, he needed this time with his violin so desperately, but it became so painful, why did it always have to be so painful? He felt a cold tear slid across his cheek, but he kept going. The window was open, he felt the line that tear had left cold in the chilly night air. He kept going, kept playing. High notes, low notes, changing quickly, like a caged animal trying to find it's way out. He kept going for God knows how long. He kept going when he felt more salty drops on his face, he kept going when his arms began to hurt like hell, he kept going when his landlord showed up to tell him to shut-the-fuck-up-it's-whatever-time-in-the-bloody-morning, he even kept going as he fell to his knees, his slender hand almost clenching around the violin's neck in still so gentle a manner it couldn't be described.
He remembered.
Where are you, idiot?
What the bloody hell have you done now?
Just what is the point of you, you freak?
Those words came not only from his family, but from the people of his every day life, too. Almost everyone he met hated him instantly. He didn't run around trying to make people like him though.
The bow now violently scratched about the strings, tearing him apart and in tiny, ripped pieces beyond repair.
That was when he stopped.
A sudden, unexpected ending to his improvised, completely felt work. He closed his eyes and lowered instrument and bow down onto the carpet in front of him. He was kneeling now, his eyes cast to the floor.
It felt oddly quiet in his flat now.
The tones still lingered in the air, like circles on the surface of a lake, drawn by a stone thrown into it.
Amazing how a tiny stone could draw such giant circles.
Soon, he thought as he looked down to his hand and smeared the blood on his fingertips with his thumb. This is not the end.