The Whisper in the Notes

by The ink stained poet

He had always felt something special when he was near music. He was always drawn to the sweet melodies it produced, from the simple tunes to the grand masterpieces. It was more than love, much more. It was something different, a connection with the notes.

Disclaimer. I do not own any rights to Bendy and the Ink Machine. All rights belong to the members of Kindly Beast.

The Whisper in the Notes.
The ink stained poet

The ink never smudged, never moved from its assigned position. Rows upon rows of pitch black lines flew across the sheet of yellow tinted paper. His pen scratched across the surface, in its path single black notes danced along each line. To most of his co-workers, the notes were just another foreign language and made little sense, but to him, they held meaning. They were more than just notes. They reminded him of himself, in a way. Standing tall, back straight, placed into position, unable to move and loathe he admit it, just another piece in a larger picture. Perhaps that is why he felt something close to pain when they claimed that his musical notes were just scrawls on a page. He connected so vividly with his music that when they insulted his music, they insulted him. He didn't want to just be seen as another mark of ink on the page that was life. And once that page was filled, it was discarded, forgotten about. Just as his old songs were by the others. Once his songs were recorded, they were abandoned, tossed away under the pretense that they were nothing more than waste now, taking up valuable space. He never stayed quiet about the issue though. His old music was more than just litter, it was alive. He had engrained a part of his soul and heart into each musical piece and to see it being mistreated with such callous made his heart and soul ache. He brought them life and they just wanted to toss it aside as if it where last week's issue of a newspaper. It was cruel, immoral. Alas his arguments rarely amounted to anything.

XxxXxx

He saw the ways the others looked upon their craft. Some with love, some with greed, some with pride and some with disgust. He had observed the faces of others when they were presented with their masterpieces. The sneer of disgust on the Toymaker's ink stained face as he glared upon the angel dolls he poured hours into, the sheer pride that radiated off the old Themepark designer and creator when he finished another project, the greed that etched itself into his boss' face when he saw the finished frames of his latest dream and the sweet smile that danced across the voice actress' face when she heard her voice beside the finished cartoon. He saw the satisfied grins of animators when they finished a scene, he heard the faint sigh of the projectionist when he was beside his beloved machine and he listened to the humming of the old lyricist as he created words to go with his masterpieces. Every person had a unique reaction to their creations and yet, they all reacted strongly. It was a truly intriguing notion, in its own way.

XxxXxx

He looked down upon the paper hidden beneath his fingers and sighed. He felt more than just love when left alone with his music, he felt pride, admiration, happiness and often times , frustration. Both he and his music were stubborn and often didn't work perfectly on the first run. He let out the breath he was subconsciously holding and retrieved a blank sheet of sepia toned paper. Slender fingers wrapped around the black, cold metal of the pen as he began rewriting the carefully placed notes. Occasionally, he had to stop to push the few stray strands of hair from his vision but that would be his only distraction. It was a relatively calm evening,with no person wandering upon him. It was a pleasant change from the average busy lifestyle he had here at his workplace. Careful not to let the still wet ink smudge, he pushed the page aside slowly and retrieved the sheet with the old version of his newest song. With great tenderness he placed the page into a small black folder that he kept hidden in the drawers of his desk. He always kept the old drafts hidden deep in the darkest corners of his office, away from the prying eyes of anyone else. He didn't want these drafts discarded just because they simply weren't perfect. It didn't seem right, he didn't believe in hurting his own music, no matter how flawed it was. Others, however, disagreed. To them, mistakes belonged in the dirt, unworthy of love. To him, all of his music was his family, and he refused to hurt any of his family.

XxxXxx

With each stroke of the clock, the world descended deeper into darkness. His office became illuminated with a dim yellow glow emitted from a single light that hung over his workspace. The sepiatoned paper now sat in a neat pile on his desk, each page completed with it's own set of unique musical notes. Above the carefully crafted notes sat a row of black letters, connected to form a string of words. Just as the notes were, each letter was carefully constructed. Every line and curve was drawn with careful precision, all 'i's were dotted with a single dot of ink, all 't's were crossed with a neat stroke of his pen. Every inch of the page was filled with carefully created symbols, not one out of place. The pages had a perfect exterior, not a single flaw in sight. But under all the perfection, many hours of hard work and flawed attempts were hidden.

XxxXxx

With a final glance at his newest pieces, he gathered the neat pile of papers from his desk and dimmed the lights. Striding towards the door, he opened it with a silent click. The wooden door creaked on its hinges as he pushed it open slowly. A steady trickle of ink falling from the ceiling awaited him outside. The splat of the thick liquid hitting the ground below seemed to vibrate between the two walls of the narrow corridor. He shuddered, clutching his music closer to him as he sidestepped the ink flow and locked the door with another click. Slowly he began descending down the corridor, each step bringing him deeper into the darkness waiting for him. All the while a pair of lifeless, black eyes gazed upon his retreating figure, its wide smile never once lessening.