Helena

The Varnish of the Violin

      The pavement was dry, rough, cold.

   Slowly, he hauled himself to his elbows, his skin scraping along. Everything ached, but his head was surprisingly clear.

   He heard chatter just outside. He'd ask for a ride home. Dragging himself to his feet, he stumbled over to a nearby trash can and steadied himself. The light at the end of the tunnel was lively– since when?

   There was a hollow thud as his foot knocked into something. Looking down, the shadows only just permitted the sheen of a violin case to strike his eye. He lowered and picked it up, a vaguely familiar action, but his arm was light. Much too light. As he made his way towards the exit, he began to shield his unaccustomed eyes.
   The streets were bustling. He saw a couple close by. Approaching, he put his hand on the woman's shoulder.

   "Excuse me, miss?"

   She turned around.

   "Oh! Hello there!"

   The woman's face was skinless. Her skull was in full view; her eyeballs hung suspended in their sockets.

   "Ave Maria!" Luis screamed, recoiling. The lady's degloved face had barely time to react before Luis' knuckles turned white around the case's handle and he turned and bolted.
   Tearing down the same tunnel he had come out of, he took a right turn, then a left, then a right again, never once turning back. With each swerve, the streets became more dank and dodgy. Luis' legs didn't stop until he came to a corner which he was sure was as isolated as possible, upon which his knees gave way and he collapsed against the wall, the case slipping out of his hands.

   Panting, chest heaving, Luis slumped against the cement bricks. He shook his head.

   "Come on, Luis," he breathed. "It's just a dream. A bad dream!" He began to lightly slap himself. When that didn't work, he looked down and raised his arm, then began to pull back his sleeve to pinch himself.
   Seeing nothing but bone sent yet another jolt shocking through his body. Yelping, he sharply yanked the sleeve back forward and pressed himself against the wall, his eyes squeezed shut. A minute or so of this was all it took him to realize it was doing nothing. His shoulders relaxed, but he shook his head again.

   "I can't be dead."

   He turned and lowered his eyes to his hand again, resignedly, then noticed the handle of the violin case inches away. Looking further, he noticed the storage zipper was open. Curiosity guiding his hand, he moved to reach inside, but no sooner than he had touched the zipper had a piece of paper fluttered out. He blinked, then picked up the paper. Turning it over, he noticed it was a black-and-white photo and held it up to the dim, muted light of the lone street lamp on the other side of the road.
   It was a picture of a man. He was grinning widely, wearing neat mariachi performance clothes. His black hair was scruffy, but as well-kept as it appeared it could've been. Under his right arm he held a beautifully varnished violin, and in his left hand at his side was a bow. The same sense of familiarity crept into Luis' chest– or rather, his chest cavity– and settled.

   Suddenly, he felt the urge to open the case, and so he did. Unlocking the latch, he unzipped both sides and lifted the lid up. Inside was the same violin; its body was a burning red, the varnish looking just as vibrant as in the picture. Colorful feathers were tied at its pegs, on which were painted little calavera skulls. He undid the velcro around the neck, then scooped it up from under, holding it carefully. He stared at it in wonderment for a minute before bringing its back to his chest and leaning back against the wall again. His fingers edged forwards towards the strings, but he winced, expecting the feeling of his newfound bare bones against thin steel to be different. Pushing forward, he willed his hand and began to softly pizz the strings. The opening notes to a song he had known resonated through the street as he shivered slightly.
   "Vito..."

   His slim fingers slowed until the ridges of his thumb only grazed the twined strings, producing a skinny, substanceless, quiet whine. He sighed, smiling faintly, then gently placed the violin back in its place, fixing the velcro back over the neck, the strings. He brought the lid back down, zipping the sides back up, pushing the latch down until he heard a click. It echoed through the darkness.

   He fell back, his shoulders landing dully on the stone wall. The photo was still in his lap. He held it up once again, studying it, then let his arm drop. Closing his eyes, he thought it best to simply rest until morning, when he could solve his predicament. Only the whispers of the tranquil wind blowing surrounded him, lulling him to sleep.