I disclaim this.
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Fingers…
So thin, so white and so long… Dancing a mad dance of druids under the moonlit night…
Wild, savage and free…
Mindless, free of thoughts and guilt… Indulged in an insatiable lust, hopping, skimming, pressing, scratching, carving, soulful, and sorrowless…
The sounds they produce expanding the infiniteness of the surface on which they roam, on which they imprint themselves, from which they wander into that endlessness, drawing more sounds, more screams shattering the stillness of the tranquil night.
Fingers…
Remorseless and crude yet so delicate and elegant as they grab, squeeze, break, dig, cut… Sounds of despair, sounds of lonely pain and pleasure derived from that pain spilling across the sky like blood red butterflies of ache and of need; swirling around as if on the wings of a crazed wind spiraling downwards, returning back to their Composer's fingers only to be freed again from the lips of the Instrument.
Sweet lips, translucent against the cold moon light, trembling helplessly in a torrent of pain, maybe in a perverse pleasure, may be begging… But for what, long forgotten…
Black strands of wild hair are pulled, bended in all directions, producing just the correct sounds, notes from that deliciously carved pillar of ivory throat. Fingers scratch over the perfection of milk white skin marring it with red drops of copper. Drops traveling down a stream of heavy breaths, wheezes and sobs.
"Ah, my Violin!" cries the Composer in mindless ecstasy, amber eyes maddened, lips red, tongue tingling with the taste of recently shed blood. A pair of hands become a thousand pair, brutally assaulting the strings of the delicate Instrument tearing away cries of protest, cries of guilty pleasure, cries of agony. The cries dissipate just like liquid fire, every note harmonizing itself into a sonata of hate, pain and obsession tearing thought the heart of the no longer silent night.
The fiddlestick harshly moves over, engraving its hate, its love, it passion upon the wrists of the Violin; the Composer reveling in the notes he is producing and marvels at his own mastery and the Violin's beauty.
More…More…
Sounds should disintegrate, notes should fly by, time should stop and listen to his Violin crying for the Composer's madness and forbidden poisonous love. Everything should become a blur, should mix and lose their true form, should cease existence amidst the unquenchable lust and hatred the Composer nurses in is heart and soul for his beloved obsession, for his Violin for the love of whom he sold his soul to the Devil.
Fingers clamping with the raw need to master the most mournful, most soulful piece of music human ears ever pried upon, the gift of the Devil. Violin struggling in his own sanity, crawling to rid himself from the touch of his Master's insistent, crazed fingers, nails… Torn in between reaching the most desired completion together with the Composer and just letting go of the strings, letting go of his soul still whining, crying, mewling, wailing, moaning; letting go of his sanity and just breaking.
"Never!"
Cries the Composer on the peak of heavens, holding him tighter with more anger, more ambition, with an insane bliss written all over his sweaty face handsome with madness… His amber orbs filled with a challenge the Violin cannot bear or answer no longer…
His delicate body giving in, sounds become muted, pleasure disappearing under the veil of thick pain. The Composer stops, throws the fiddlestick in a corner, licks the blood away from the wounds, sees that he stopped just before he broke his precious obsession.
Violin lies on the sheets of red silk, his Master tending the scratches, wounds, bruises, tears covering all over his bound body. He shivers as the Composer releases him from his chains. He closes his eyes and starts sobbing again hugging his almost broken body to himself. Composer leans in and licks away some of the tears.
"Don,'t you see L, you defy me to the point of death… You are in my hands, you are bound to me, yet you still defy me. How can we go on if you never say the things I desire to hear from your lips? You are the only one I want him to understand me and yet you still never give your consent, never acknowledge me, never see what I have become for the sake of us…"
His obsession opens his eyes but his words are sealed with the lips of the Composer. The feeling of being ravished returns as if all these are lived for the first time. He has lost the count…
No struggle, no resistance, and no intention of returning the 'favour'.
He pulls back, leaving the Violin on his silken bed, eyeing him as he covers himself.
Eyes ablaze, he walks to the oak door, opening it, giving a last glance to his obsession.
"Your heart and body is forever mine to play, never forget this, you're mine until one of us breaks or loses his will to master this sonata…"
A snicker.
"Yet, even then I doubt that I can ever let you go."
And he is gone, locking his Violin into the wooden and iron confines of his dark mind.
Words and touches are a fiddlestick of sleek blade, black hair and long eyelashes are strings, an abused body is the instrument, cruelty and hatred mingled with an insane love are the fingers and hands of the Violinist, thin aggravated sounds of the Violin is the composition and its master is the mad Composer never to be sated in this bitter delirium he thinks is the sweetest love he has ever tasted.
So cries the Violin forever trapped in his own love for this moonlight sonata.
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