A Puppet To Her Fame

She left me. She left me and I was powerless to stop it.

After all the suffering I've endured at the hooves of my parents. After fighting the haunting melodies of that cursed cello. After making myself vulnerable and trusting her completely, she left me.

Now I sit alone in my room. The music that has been tormenting me my whole life is all I have left. I focus my eyes on the desk and pour all my attention into transcribing the music onto paper. There was nothing else in my room I wanted to look at.

I did not turn to see my cello sitting in its stand. I did not glance at the blood stained walls or corpses of my parents. I did not look to see her sunglasses on my nightstand.

My life has nothing left, so I compose. I craft our mournful sonata into a piece that will last millennia. Even the last bit of sunlight in my life, cast through a hole in the curtains, is fading.

All that I have, all that remains, is the music.

(Story doesn't belong to me)