Lily reveals Barney wants to be a violinist, right? If only she knew why. A drabble into the secret life of Barney Stintson.
Barney Stintson can do alot of things.
He can do magic tricks. He can speak English, Japanese, Italian and French. He can identify what style and which country every suit he sees is from. He's had sex in almost every position imaginable, so he can do some pretty weird things there too.
Yes, Barney Stintson can do a lot of things.
But the only thing he likes to do is play the violin.
It started when he was nine. His mom needed he and James out of her hair, so she signed them up for the first activities she could find. James, almost thirteen at the time, immediately found football, but the coach said Barney was too small and too young to play./"Mama, what can I do?" He asked, kicking her seat as they dropped James off at practice. Loretta pushed her hair out of her eyes and sighed.
" We'll find something B."
Soon they did. One day, when Loretta was playing cards with Rhonda as Barney sat at her feet, playing with his shoelaces.
"You know that cutie who moved in down the street?" Rhonda said, carefully examining her cards. "The music teacher? We really hit a high F, if you know what I mean."
Ignoring Rhonda's sex jokes, Loretta called the music teacher, David. Loretta asked him what the cheapest instrument to buy was.
"We cant go grabbing every six thousand dollar piano we see, you know." Loretta said, crossing her arms firmly as Barney clung to her side, apprehensive.
"You can learn the violin." David said, standing in the Stintson's doorway. "I already have one, it's made for smaller hands."
Loretta raised an eyebrow.
" And Barney can use that, no charge?"
David smiled, crouching down so he was eye-to-eye with Barney.
"No charge." He replied, smiling.
The rest was history.
Fifteen years had passed since that day, and like clockwork, whenever Barney had a rough day, he'd run up the stairs of his apartment building, lock the door behind him and run to his bedroom. He'd slide his hand under his bed, under the floorboards, and touch a small black case.
Barney would yank it onto the floor, rip it open, and take out his violin.
He'd cradle it in his hands for a moment, it's delicate neck. He'd take a deep, heaving breathe, and he'd play.
Barney would take his bow and race it across the strings. The notes would soar and fall. They would tell stories as he played, played until beads of sweat ran down his face, until his chin ached from holding up his instrument.
The songs filled the room, haunting or cheery, quick and precise, just like David taught him. Barney had loved David, who only cared if Barney was playing right, nothing else. Maybe that's why he still loved playing so much.
When he played, he wasn't Barney, the whore's bastard son. He wasn't Barney, the only seventeen year old in his class who hadn't been kissed. He wasn't Barney, the jerky womanizer his friends couldn't stand.
He was Barney, who played the violin. He played for hours, wiping away all the hurt, all the lies, all the tears. He let the notes, balanced and nimble, take him to a different world. He played until his fingers went numb, until his head hurt from the constant noise. He played because it was the only thing that kept him from giving up.
He played when the heartbreak Robin gave him was almost too much to handle.
He played when he lost Ted, the only friend he'd ever had.
He played to rid his mind of every bad memory, every horrible experience he'd ever had.
He plays, and everything else goes away.
And sometimes that's the only thing saving him.