This chapter is short, but it may require a tissue. Also, shout out to Nada, who is the reason why I went back to finish my stories and write some new ones. She has been instrumental (no pun intended) for this story being written and this chapter in particular. Thank you, Nada!

Chapter 15

Seeing the theater with my own eyes fueled my desire to attend a live performance, and the anticipation threatened to consume my every waking moment. Madeline swore to me she would make certain I was able to attend, although she admitted there was not much of a plan as to how this would come to fruition. Still, I fixated on the idea as we traveled through the back corridors, and before we parted ways, I requested something to tide me over before the performance.

"You want the music?" Madeline asked, taken aback by my request. She stood with the lantern in her right hand, left hand on her hip, and head cocked to the side. "For the entire opera?"

"I would like to familiarize myself with the work before the performance."

"But that will spoil the surprise."

She had yet to realize I was terribly impatient.

"Not for me."

We had made our way back to the door at the top of the five flights of stairs after an hour of sitting in the empty theater without so much as a mouse crossing our path. With other duties to attend, I knew Madeline would take her leave, but I wanted to make my single request in hopes she would be able to obtain a copy and deliver it to me at least a day or two before I saw my first opera.

"I will see what I can do," she replied with a shrug.

Her answer disappointed me, as I wanted a definitive answer, but I thanked her all the same.

"I will visit you Tuesday evening," she promised as she affectionately squeezed my shoulder.

With a nod, I took the lantern from her grasp, thanked her for the adventure and made my way alone down the stairway to my home where I immediately removed Daae's violin from the box I had found it in weeks earlier.

For a long moment I stared at the instrument and the bow, still mesmerized by the workmanship. Merely holding the violin in my clammy hands seemed somewhat forbidden and yet I could not bear to set it down. What good was such a finely crafted violin when left to languish in a cave? This violin deserved a better fate.

What are you waiting for, child? I heard my uncle's raspy voice in the back of my mind. Play it, for God's sake!

I took a deep breath, straightened my spine, and put the bow to the strings with no tune in mind. Eyes closed, I let instinct guide me until the notes arranged themselves in my head and the melody whined through the cavern. The acoustics made me shiver as the somber music reverberated through the depths and surrounded me, each note like a needle piercing into my heart.

Where did that come from, my son?

"From my suffering," I said under my breath, surprised by my own words.

That was the sound of years of pent up sadness longing for a voice. Words would not suffice such deep-rooted misery; what I had felt inside for so long could not be expressed with the tongue. This needed to be felt and released, a ripple of mourning cast out into the darkness of the lake.

And now that you have rid yourself of this suffering, what will you play next?

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I wondered if I would truly ever be free of such misery. The music inside of me came out angry at first, harsh and stinging like the flash of indignation that grappled with depression.

My hands trembled, body started to crumple and I nearly dropped the bow. Doubled over, I thought of how many times in my life I had attempted to shield myself from a beating I knew deep down I did not deserve. My vision wavered, my fingers turned numb as panic threatened to drive me to my knees.

Chest heaving, I had not truly realized how much rage I carried, much heavier and more foreboding than my sadness. Deep down inside, I wanted to destroy something, but I feared I would ultimately destroy myself.

You have every right to feel angry.

"I am sick to death of being enraged," I whispered. My bottom lip quivered, the tears slipping freely down my face. "Please tell me what to do, Uncle."

Agonizing seconds passed and the voice in my head went silent. Reduced to a sobbing mess, I knelt and started to place the violin back inside the box, my self worth non-existent and body cold and numb to the core. My anger drove away the memory I held dear and I felt more lost than the day I had buried my beloved uncle in the woods.

From the corner of my eye I spotted a vase with flowers Madeline had brought for me as well as a cream-colored lace runner and a stack of books to occupy my time. Beside the books, a box of chocolates and a couple of pears she had told me to eat because she did not want me consuming so many sweets. The contradiction of candy and fruit in the same wicker basket brought a smile to my lips as I pictured Madeline with one hand on her hip and her finger wagging at me.

I wiped away the tears and stared at the gifts she had brought, small tokens of her affection I struggled to comprehend as my thoughts flooded with all of the reasons she should have turned away from me.

And yet from the food in the pantry to the very clothes I wore, Madeline had treated me with kindness, and her actions pushed away the darkness threatening to take hold. I loved her in a way I could not comprehend but needed more than I had ever realized.

Once again I took up the violin, but this time the melodies in my veins lacked anger and sadness. The warmth of the sun on the rooftop flowed through the tips of my fingers and into my music.

I played for the joy I had experienced the moment I stepped into the theater and the acceptance I felt each time Madeline met my eye and placed her hand over mine. When I was near her, she made me forget I was different from the rest of the world. Her smile brightened my dark world, and the way she treated me like I was family filled the crevices in my deeply damaged heart.

I played for my deceased uncle, for the first person who had ever loved me, but it was no requiem. I thought of his hand on the top of my head and the confidence he bestowed upon me. More tears fell, but the taste of salt on my lips was accompanied by a deep sense of relief that there was goodness in the world and I was allowed to experience it. He would have loved Madeline, I knew. Perhaps he would have thought she should have been more strict with me, but he would have appreciated her nonetheless.

I played music I would never play again, the deep wounds no one could see bled dry with each note leaving my body. Once the bow left the strings for the final time, I felt as though the sound had baptized me and my mind and soul were cleansed at last.

You are not beyond healing, Erik. You are not beyond hope.

For as long as I could remember I felt as though I always stood on the precipice of destruction. The smallest tap and I would tumble over the edge and never recover. For years I had stood with my toes over the edge, and yet now I felt as though Madeline had done what my uncle attempted and reeled me back to safety.

Emotionally spent, I wrapped the violin in its cloth, nestled it inside the box, and placed it on the table beside the flower vase. The air felt colder and a rose petal felt from the long stem and onto the cloth covering the violin. I stared at the velvety red petal, the edges dried and shriveled, cast out from the fresher buds still clinging to the stem. The rest of the rose had also started to blacken and curl at the edges, and eventually each delicate petal would join the single one that had already fallen.

"Thank you," I said to the shadow haunting my thoughts as I wrapped my arms around my chest and hugged myself tightly. I was certain he had sent Madeline to me, one final act to save me. "Thank you Uncle Alak."