This is a one-shot written on a whim. I hope you like it, there is not much else to say describing it. Have fun!
[Insert Disclaimer]
"Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent."
-Victor Hugo
It was a constant, a repeating combination of sweet, high, soothing notes. They pierced through the stillness of the air; they were the new measure of time. And then it all came tumbling down.
It spiralled down in a frenzy, everything hurried, dully pained. It was a torrent, a surge of sentiment. His fingers moved quickly over the strings, the bow caressing them, teasing out every last decibel, and the notes decreased in pitch rapidly, all at once- it felt almost like falling.
And then he played the balance between sound and silence, the balance between agony and gratification. His eyes closed and face contorted slightly as his concentration wavered for only a moment.
A quiet, gentle, feral, dark rumbling sound came next and stayed for what seemed an eternity before being replaced by something softer, more feminine that slowly climbed up higher and higher, and then stopped. His fingers relaxed for just a second, balancing his instrument carefully on the palm of his hand.
And now he starts to play, to feel, and to portray.
He draws out every emotion he has never shown, each smile that remained but a ghost across his visage, every tear that remained but a hint in the back of his mind.
The only thing he never dares to play is the ubiquitous smirk, the acrid sarcasm, or his painful honesty.
Why?
Because some things are to be played only once, and an eternal façade is one of them, put on only when necessary. Of all of the pieces he has ever played, each is a masterpiece on its own, something complex, bright, yet pensive; together they represent a being scarred, a being unable to purge himself of his demons.
The reason why he plays until this day is because he has not yet the courage, nor the ability, to show his single friend every implied smile and every hidden moue. The violin speaks in tongues he has yet to master and yet to savour.
But someday, the decrescendo, his fall, will be just as sweet as the crescendo, the rise; the reason why is because the violinist will finally open his eyes and allow himself, for the first time, to be staggeringly vulnerable and heartrendingly enlightened.
Hope that I did not disappoint!
Remember, reviews are always highly appreciated :)