Violinist (CENTURIES series: Book #4)

19

It was only a small miracle Dan wasn't home.

Lying in my bed, I watched Tony sleep. He wore a browbeating expression in his dreams and his nostrils flared quietly as he battled with his quiet demons.

My soul watched his. I barely dared to breathe as I watched how tattered it was. Its journey for peace had torn it to pieces.

I pressed my lips together and lowered my eyes to his body. I wondered when he had started letting himself go... I couldn't imagine waking up every morning looking at myself and not recognizing my own reflection. Tony had done that for eight years. At last he had given up on himself, just like the world had given up on him.

Silently arising, I toed out of my bedroom. Drifting into the empty living room, my eyes fell to the note I had found earlier when we had first stepped in. It had been taped to the mirror in the hall. A text on my phone was how we usually did things, but then again, lately, maybe he didn't think I would do what I usually did.

Mel,
I'm staying with Kyle for a few days. I think it's for the best. Call me later when you see this, alright?
Love you,
Dan

My hands cradled my phone as I looked at his number. I picked at my bottom lip, trembling as I hit dial.

Dan had always been there for me. If he had left me... if he couldn't recognize me... if he had given up on my reflection...

The phone rang out. He was probably still sleeping. He was working last night and it was still early for us. Sighing, I put my phone away on the coffee table, but then halted up. Reflection...

Looking at himself, Tony remembered nothing. But when he played...

My gaze was pinned on the violin. It was right there, on the couch, where he had left it after we came back. He had taken it out of the case, fiddled with it, then discarded it—rejected it, and traded it in for my bed. He could fight later.

But now, I couldn't help but stare at it. It just lay there. Lifeless. Soulless. Soundless. Empty and mute without his fingers to wield the bow and strings. It was truly nothing more than a puppet. But wasn't that the kettle calling the pot.

He'd played it in front of me so many times. He played like it was nothing, yet it took everything in him to pick it up—to tap into whatever opened up when fingers met wood and bow met strings. Reflection... recognition... remembering...

My own fingers suddenly twitched. Itched. A need I didn't know was building inside me.

He had played and felt through it, but what was it that truly happened to him? He remembered, but what happened the moment before he did? During? After? It was like... chemistry. Something sparked and caused a reaction. Fireworks in the fog.

Dead apart. Alive together.

Etching forward, my fingers slowly reached around the neck of the tool, but unlike him, I didn't strangle it. I picked it up delicately, like a fragile doll, and placed it in my lap to look at it. Just like he always did.

The curvy body of it looked so strangely ladylike. It was ironic. I wondered if he saw the same thing when he looked at it. A woman? A tool? An instrument? Nothing? I could've guessed for ages, and in a million years, I would be non the wiser.

Slowly, I lifted the violin. I closed my eyes and tried to remember what he did. He lifted the body to his chin, settling his head against it like he was spooning it. He raised the neck to an angle and then... he grasped the bow.