The Violinist

Dread

As I start the long walk home, I finally open the messages sent to me hours ago. As I open the messages, they are misspellings and errors everywhere. I assume she may have been drunk and dismiss all of the messages and continue to walk home. I continue listening my music. As I walk, I hum along to the beat and tone of my music. I look around and with some fear and apprehension...I sing. Specifically, I sing the Weeknds "Earned It". I have not sung since before my parents split apart. Easily more than 5 years. I am shaky and rusty to say the least. Not to mention with the skill I worked for in violin, I am easily annoyed by my lack of control and poise in my voice. I finish and as I turn the corner, I see invasive, flashing lights of blue and red. I am on guard immediately and I walk up the street. A crowd is gathered around the cars and I force myself past each nosey neighbor catching snatches of what happened. Ignoring all of them, I make it to the front of the crowd to see the police looking for someone. I make my way to one of the officers asking what happened. He explains that unless I live in the house, I need to leave. I stay there until the realization hits him. He escorts me inside and my feeling of dread grows, gnawing at my insides, like an ever hungry abomination of the mind . Was this why Ia called, to try and warn me? To prepare me? Shaking my head of any thoughts, I enter my dark and now crowded house. The sergeant takes me to my room, confirming my suspicions of bad news. My palms grow moist and slick and I prepare myself for anything. As we enter, he closes the door and despite him being a policeman, I tense and sets myself against anything. He sits down and he starts asking me questions about my father. If he drank? Did he do drugs? Was he abusive?  I told the officer that he already had the answers to these questions. To hurry up. With a look of woe, he takes off his hat and looks at me. Yet, the look is not one of regret, but of pity. As if he could only feel sorry for me. I close my hands into fists and feel myself become angry. What did he know. He does not know me, he does not get to judge me. I stand and start yelling to say the words, to get it over with. All the while, my anger, white hot and burning. Burning itself through me to the surface transforming into cold iron hatred. Hatred for the world, for her, for my father, for my life...but most of all for me. With a sigh the officer looks up and a brief emotion of real regret and sadness in his eyes, he says,
"Son...your father is dead...."