The Violinist
By: Melody Syper Carston

Bitter cold sweeps through the air, chilling the air's occupants with a cold wind alone cannot create. Acquaintances in black clothing morph together in on large glob, and it is impossible to tell one family from the next. Silence hangs heavy on the observers' shoulders, pressing down, down, down on their necks until their heads bend forward in graceful, mournful arch.

Close to the front, is a handful still not believing that this has actually happened. This handful stands in shocked silence, watching, unattached, what happens all around. This handful stands close together, shoulders brushing the next. The handful merely listened to the icy wind whipping in their ears and the bleakness of the sorrow to come.

At the front stands the closer handful. This handful is filled with much too young faces—high school students—all huddled together as if trying to comfort each of the others with their mere presence. They huddle around one lone individual, whose eyes are blood-shot and glassy from tears that had only just ceased in flow. Those huddled each keep one arm around the lone figure, holding him in his place—holding his broken form together.

His shoulders jerk violently, brunette hair and lone curl bouncing with the harsh movements. Short, loud sniffles are the only sound that can be heard from the brunette whose hands are clasped together in front of him as if begging someone that this reality couldn't be real. 'Tornare a vivere! Tornare a vivere! Tornare a vivere…!' he wanted to shout, wanting—needing to propel himself forward. Needing to break away from the crowd. Needing to throw himself to the ground and beg.

But he does not. The brunette merely shakes, staring ahead.

Directly in front of the brunette, next to the white casket—freshly decorated with lilies and black thorn less roses—stands an equally alabaster skinned boy. His red eyes are at half-mask focused on the instrument in his hand as his skilled fingers sing the last of his family a final lullaby. The haunting music trills above the wind—sweet and haunting all at the same time.

The bow suddenly wavers on its strings—squeaking abruptly and pulling the observers out of their trance as the red eyed boy drops to his knees in front of the now covered grave. Slowly, he lowers the violin from the crevice between his chin and neck, and stares at the upturned mound of dirt. Voice no longer able to work for fear that if he did, his voice would crumble just as he has; his lips form words silent words, instead:

"Sleep well, meinbruder. We'll miss you dearly."
X~*~X

A/N: Wrote this… three weeks ago? Maybe two. Anyway, we always have to write a journal by Friday in my Gifted English II class, and that week it was "Free Topic". So I was going to just describe the seasons and just turn in a bit of description practice, but then… I was struck with a plot bunny.

Gods, I'm so mean… I think in like half of my stories Ludwig is always the one that dies… I think it's because I like writing Depressed!Feliciano. Ha, what's wrong with me? OTL

Yeah, Reviews are cool. So are faves and stuff. I haven't posted anything in a while so might as well post this, ya know?

~Melody Syper Carston