Rose learned the violin to make her mother happy. Her heart was not in the notes she played or the chords she struck; her mind was elsewhere, lost in the pages of countless novels and fairytales. She remembered all the tunes, however; after all, who knew when her mother would ask her to play for her.
Rose's favorite was a dreary melody, a melancholy thing it was. It wasn't easy to play, that she knew well; but it was the only one she would perform willingly, no matter the situation. Her whole being went into that one piece; and when she had finished, her stoic demeanor returned as if it had never left.
Her mother always delighted in hearing her daughter play. No matter which song, melody, or symphony it was, it was all beautiful to her mother's ears. Even in her drunken stupors, her mother would still smile and giggle profusely if she heard so much as a measure of her daughter's talent. And Rose humored her mother; after all, her mother dearest was the only reason she continued to practice.
Rose never told her friends she could play the violin. Why should she? It would only bring annoyance and irritation to her already miserable life. The only one who ever heard the sweet sounds of the instrument was her mother and herself, although Rose bitterly despised the empty notes she forced herself to strike. The only song she was ever happy to play was that melancholy tune, her haunting refrain. And her friends would never have to know.
The only song Rose could remember in that hour of distress was that blasted haunting melody. As she struck the first note, her mind flashed to all of the times she had played it over in the silence of her room. Then her mind had been filled with a sorrowful emptiness. Now, as the world burned around her, her inner being was wrought with fear and worry. Her mind reeled in all of the possible outcomes, most of them morbid and unforgiving. Still her hands played on, seeking solace in the one way they knew how.
The refrain had always stayed with Rose, despite her no longer playing it. Its chords and notes would run through her mind as if on eternal replay with no end in sight. She could not pick up her violin again, but still Rose knew. She knew that in the end, she had not really learned the violin for her mother; she had learned for herself and for her own peace of mind. Because, after all, no one knew when her demons would ask her to play for them.