The Twin's Downfall | COMPLETED

Day 34

My memories are vague and I do not remember when I received a violin. I remembered it appearing in my cell one morning - after I had woken up from a terrible nightmare. I had stared at the brown instrument - waiting for something to happen but nothing did. No one from the other side said a word.

The guards ought to know about the arrival of an object into my cell - to think that they had allowed this was peculiar.

Why a violin?

What was it's purpose here? Has it come to save me from boredom?

Standing up, I headed forwards to retrieve it from the slot and picked it up for a closer inspection. Amongst my limited knowledge regarding string instruments, it was a Stradivarius model – sleek and smooth and it seemed to be alive when I touched it. It seemed to beg to be played and I wonder if the Warden planted this for a reason.

Why a Stradivarius?

Assuming that they were watching me, I set the violin on the table and did my usual routine instead. I got washed - wiping away the dirt and grime from my skin. A thud was heard at the slot by the back wall - it meant that my new set of clothes had arrived, accompanied by a tray filled with breakfast.

The prison clothes were scratchy and starchy - stiff as a fucking board as I pulled the shirt on, getting past the collar was hard and my ears were ringing by the time I managed to get through the round collar. The pants was another thing - I would've sacked whoever had made the prison uniforms.

Onto breakfast. Today they had given a bowl of oatmeal that had seen better days. It looked pale, sallow and miserable - just like living in here. There was a small bowl of fruit with a glass of watered down milk that had been mixed in with medication - an attempt to tone down our craziness.

The oatmeal was bland and it reminded me of vomit. The fruits were about to rot - the sour taste was apparent and I wondered if the prison was thriving - at the state of the food that I was being given. If they wanted me to die faster, they were succeeding.

As I ate, I happened to glance back at the violin as it rests innocently on the desk. I was itching to start playing it - to have something else to do in this dump. 

After I was done with breakfast, I obliged. I took up the violin and let it rest on my neck. I took up the bow and began to draw across the strings - a single, calming note purring out from within my fingers, igniting the excitement in my chest once again. 

This is amazing.

That was a week ago.

I play the violin for hours and hours – partly just to aggravate the guards who were stationed outside the doors. It worked – humans are so typical. I had no score sheet in front of me, but I remembered all of them in my mind's eye. With practiced fingers of a trained violinist, I began to play and I did not stop once till I was satisfied.

One day, a male voice was heard across the speakers.

"Is that a Beethoven piece?"

Hearing another voice made me stop and look up. The voice sounded young, and he had a lilting Scottish accent. It was the first time a guard had spoken to me and it intrigued me. I had suspected that the armed guards stationed on the other side of those doors had been given a stern warning by the Warden not to have any communication with me.

This is certainly new.

I wondered what had spurred the young man to speak to me. Was he bored with his work to bother speaking with a prisoner? Does he have such overwhelming empathy that he is willing to risk his job to communicate with a prisoner? I wonder.

"Your playing is very beautiful," he continued.

I remained quiet. I detested unnecessary conversation.

"You could've become an accomplished violinist," he continued.

That statement intrigued me. "How do you know that?" I replied. "Are you also an accomplished violinist?"

There was a long pause. I think he was surprised I had replied him. I waited for his reply, wondering what was happening behind those closed doors. The other armed guards would probably counsel him - to stop before things escalated. I wonder if he would heed his seniors' advice.

"Your playing - it's very good," he said.

Interesting human. "I never know if it is," I said. "I only know if it's right."

"Sometimes it means the same thing."

"No it doesn't," I pointed out. "It exist merely in the mind which contemplates them; and each mind perceives a different beauty."

There was no answer.

I waited.

Silence.

"The rest of your friends may despise classical music, even though you like them," I explained thoughtfully. "The perception of different genres of music has been honed from experience, the brain developed itself to like what it likes to hear."

"Oh, I see," he replied. "Do you know any Tchaikovsky pieces?"

I raised up the violin once again and began to play. I did not know why I heeded his request, but he was not heard of after that. It may seemed that he was given a warning and a send-off – for attempting to speak with me as I was under orders by the upper management to have the minimum human interaction.

I missed that guy.

.