"She's dead."
He sits in his chair for a long time after that, a long time after Bourne (the bastard, a part of his mind whispers, furious) leaves and the sky gets dark and slowly cold begins to creep into the flat.
He sits there for hours, maybe days, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing and only trying to figure out what he's supposed to feel and hating the emptiness that seems to wallow within him–a bucket over an empty well.
Finally, though, when he feels something pull at his heart--playing with the aorta valve and toying with blood flow– does he realize what he must do.
Martin Kreutz woodenly leans forward in his chair, grabbing at his cello and carefully bringing it back to him. He cradles the bow in his right hand while his left grips the neck resolutely and exhales, closing his eyes.
The bow hair falls on its own accord between the fingerboard and the bridge.
And it is then that Martin Kreutz, tears flowing silently down his face, begins to play.
The neighbors would tell their friends and family later that they had never heard such sad, beautifully raw music in all of their lives.
A/N: Ah, how the muse is fickle and tempermental and yet...(sometimes) brilliant!
I owe most of these later stories to the great and precise reviews of lazaefare and Some Random Reviewer as well as the super-enthusiastic Darlian. She calls me an energetic beaver. I think I might actually change it to my pen name. ;D
Thank you for your reviews. They're going to certainly contribute to what will be coming later.
Love,
LF