Mischief Managed

27.5: (Be Gone)

My mum dropped her trunks by the staircase. The black leather clattered, and dust sprang from the floor where it fell. The sound of their impact shivered through the still rooms. Abandoned couches and dusty rugs sat exactly where I last remembered them.

But I'd already been here; I'd come early this morning to store away some of my dad's things. My eyes traveled to the living room. I hadn't touched his music sheets. I'd brought my fingers within inches of the paper, but my nerves had begun to screech...Those are his. His.

When I spoke, I could feel my voice's vibrations shake the stiff air.

"Mum...do you want me to bring your things upstairs?"

She hovered by the stairs, her gaze cast to the closed doors beyond the steps.

"No thanks, honey," she said quietly.

Then she began to walk slowly down the hall, her fingertips lightly brushing the house's light grey walls. Dust coated them.

"Mum...?"

Her head twisted back to me, and her blue eyes held the same screaming pain they had since I'd told her. They filled with tears. "I'm sorry, Bree. None of this is fair to you. This house...it's like nothing's changed."

I dropped my things and hustled towards her.

"You know what? I have an idea," I suggested.

Her face strained with uncertainty. If I were a little older or she a bit younger, we could have passed for sisters. Her wispy blonde hair hung just above her shoulders, and her eyes were the same shade of ocean as my own.

"Erm," I began. I wanted to cry. Everything felt wrong. "I was thinking...maybe it would help if you played piano."

Her eyes widened for a moment, and for a moment she looked like she was fighting a war inside herself. Sadness leaked from her eyes, but her chin wobbled as she tried to keep it high.

Sadness spilled and she shook her head.

"I'm sorry, honey," she whispered. "I can't do that."

A hammer pounded my chest. It was a stupid hope. I never should have expected her to say yes. If I was her, I probably won't have said yes.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. She cast one last look around the hallway. The pictures hanging on the walls. Me, her, my dad in Siena. Rome. Geneva. Paris.

She trudged up the stairs, and I could see her trembling as she tried so hard not to break in front of me.

She turned away from the bedroom she had shared with my father and continued down the hall towards our guest bedroom.

I heard the lock click.

Moments after, an tawny owl pecked the glass window in the living room. I tip-toed over scattered sheet music and etude books and raised the pane. Brisk air dried my cheeks, and my fingers took the instrument case from the owl stiffly.

I closed the window and set the case on an empty table. I undid the locks and zippers and raised the top half open.

There sat my violin, its wood still a coffee-cream shade of brown, its belly still speckled and strings still clean. My fingers hovered above its body hesitantly. I wanted to hold the violin in my arms, to cradle it close to my chest. I wanted to spill soft, sweet music from its strings again.

It terrified me.

I pressed my fingers to the wood.

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

A princess walked the street alone. Curved, cream buildings and cast-iron balconies hovered beside her, and worn, patched cobblestones forced curves in her feet. Her prince wasn't there. No one was there.

But still, voices whispered. Begging, weeping, broken voices that were once filled with confidence. Love. Happiness.

They tore and tugged at the ruffles in the princess's blue skirt and she cast her eyes to the sky. Pleading.

Still the voices wept. Cried. But then something stifled them; a low, pure melody leaking from an apartment window. It pressed its gentle fingers to mouths of the broken, hushing their wails and filling the street with sun.

The richness of the sound wrapped blankets around the princess, and she fell into its arms.

They embraced her. Sent white-crested waves over her sorrow, washing over them until they faded. Scrubbed her clean.

Then it left, retreated back through the same undistinguishable window it had came from. The voices resumed their crying, but this time the princess pressed her fingers to their lips.

The music came from her heart now, and its voice sung with dripping emotion, soaking up all of the despair and replacing it with hope.

Healing.

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

I lowered my violin from my shoulder, and my heart rose in my chest. The music had made me a promise.

I was going to be alright.