His Beloved Violin





 A musician. The man was a musician, one of such stature that the world had recognized. He was indeed talented, undoubtedly a man of great knowledge and skill. He created such dark melodies for the world; at the time he did live, something out of the ordinary was to be found in such cold, cruel emotions in orchestra. Yet, no matter how unforgivingly melancholic or apprehensive his songs grew, always was there to be found that he smiled while playing. He indulged in the soft rhythmic motions in which he swayed with great joviality. He concocted from the deepest depths of his mind the moving notes to be penned on paper, whilst also having an outstanding understanding of how to play them. The man loved every instrument a person could conceive, but one in particular was rather more favorable through his eyes. It made such a lovely sound, one of which was only matched in caliber by that of the songs of angels. His trusted violin that he did play with such grace, this is what he found most amusing of all.

However, before he did climb to such fame, he himself was always quite miserable. He always felt so dreadfully tired, lost in his own self pity after the passing of his family in it’s entirety. He coped just as well as any man may have at this time, and released his sorrowful woes through none other than music; wretched music that displayed all but happiness. Every time a note was played so solemnly by himself, his own contemptment only grew the more weary. He loved his violin the most of course at this time still, yet even then, he found himself unable to smile with the proper reconciliation of his joy. Months passed with no resolution as to whether he would ever smile again. His sadness was overwhelming, and soon he had found himself without a job, poor on the streets, a beggar with no other purpose than to collect scraps of money. He would play his violin on the streets, his emotionally crushing notes getting him nowhere, for no-one wanted to hear such horrid things being played at this time. He would try and sell his sheet music, yet of course, people being cold as they are, did not accept. Was he ever to find his lost soul again? At this point it seemed almost impossible. However, if anything were to make so happy once more in life than in death, it would be his beloved violin.

At least when he played this truly exquisite instrument, he could find some sort of lostness in the music it played. He loved the way that the strings moved and vibrated with every stroke of his majestic paintbrush overtop of them. It was wonderfully enchanting. Perhaps what he did next, this one day, in something of an alleyway, was what had created such stardom around himself. He wanted to be happy again, to be back in the world that everyone else seemed to breathe and move in with such ease. If a smile is procured out of happiness, then shouldn’t what concocts happiness for a person be with the mouth in harmony? This is a question the musician asked in what he first believed to be his final moments before suicide. Yet, after pondering his thoughts for a few brief moments, he found himself in the middle of a revelation.

At first it was excruciating and burned with extreme intensity. He bellowed into the night air his anguish, both in physical pain and psychological. The next sew was wound tight around his callused bottom lip, the sting nerve wrecking. A tear rolled down his cheek as the sensation began to affect his already mangled thoughts. Once more in the upper lip it went, only pulling the newly formed wound below upwards with harsh force. He continued. Again to the bottom lip, but this time he’d gone too far too one side, perhaps subconsciously eager to end his misery. His lip was pulled by the rough string. He kicked his feet forward, banging them into the wall. Scream he did try, yet he found his mouth so enclosed that all that could be heard were soft whimpers of pleading desperation into the night. Another tear rolled down his opposite cheek, creating two stream marks. Once more he lifted his top lip and stuck through the final sew into his lips. Blood began to boil inside his mouth. He swallowed it down, holding back his stomach’s contents. Next were the cheeks, to claim his smile as eternity’s friend.

Putting it through his thin flesh came with ease, yet twisting it inside was found to him to be quite difficult. Once the string was in, it came to him with slight surprise that the hole was not big enough to fit his fingers through so he could tie a knot. He scoured the ground for an object on hands and knees. He found a shard of glass placed upon the ground. It was sharp at the tip, and perhaps small enough to make an indentation for him to work in. At first it was as if a needle poking his skin, which then progressed to sting like a wasp, only to grow so badly as to only be compared to torture itself. Saliva began to accumulate and bubble at his lips as he tried once more for a scream, yet no noise came. He did just the same to the other side, the pain growing more numb. After he had finished, he looked down at his violin, one string missing. It was not of concern, he always had extra strings handy.

The musician only grew in fame after that, as people found themselves curious as to how such event may have occurred every time he played. The man was a musician, one of such stature that the world had recognized. He created such dark melodies for the world; at the time he did live, something out of the ordinary was to be found in such cold, cruel emotions in orchestra. Yet, no matter how unforgivingly melancholic or apprehensive his songs grew, always was there to be found that he smiled while playing.

What did he eat if his mouth was enclosed for the time of his very living period? Why, he did not have much use of his tongue after all...

Refreshing Demise (talk) 06:28, July 4, 2014 (UTC)