posted on Apr, 25 2015 @ 08:28 PM
“They say that some of the greatest musicians made a deal with the Devil to become experts on their music. I think what more likely happened is they
made a pact with their instrument, poured some of their soul into it, and made the instrument part of themselves. My 20 some odd years of knowing
Gertrude poured into my memory, and the damned violin, forgot that I was not her, responded as if I was her.
On we went, singing over the high note valleys of our youth, playing tag with the quickening heartbeats of the violin’s pulse. And slowing down and
building vibrato on our first kiss – the Devil himself, if not God already, were probably listening in awe – I remember nothing of the playing,
only that every memory I had of Gertrude was being translated into music; her soul, long trapped with the violin, was being unleashed. With a mounting
crescendo, I knew the end was near. It was then that three things simultaneously happened: The crowd jumped to their feet, crying and laughing with
joy. The violin, sensing that its greatest achievement was accomplished, broke in my hands – the 7 pieces falling gently at my feet, much to my
astonished eyes. But the final piece, that I will swear actually happened, even though no one will admit it, was that in the center of the aisle,
outlined by the glowing of the spotlight, was a vibrant figure made of the purest light I could see. She was crying, smiling, and laughing in her
typical laugh – Gertrude! My fairest lady! I don’t remember much after, only remember being in a state of shock, picking up the violin pieces,
and going home.”
He smiled at me, a warm, smile that only hinted at his final memory.
“And, so you ask how I came to be here. Well, I decided that the breaking of the violin meant its journey had been accomplished. Because I am
superstitious, and remember the old tales about heretics being chopped to pieces so that their souls can never rest, I came back here, and buried her
broken violin with her. I come here to remember her, and it is here that I can sometimes hear her playing from Heaven itself”.
Because dusk was closing in quick, we both made our somewhat hasty Goodbyes: I left, he said he would stay for a bit longer. I found out the next day
that the old man was discovered on the same bench, dead from a broken heart, but with a peaceful, content smile on his face (he was 80, so it wasn’t
too unusual). However, I didn’t tell anyone this because to the police that interviewed me, I’m sure it would sound entirely mad. As I left that
night, I’ll swear to God that I heard the sound of a violin, the aire wafting gently on the breeze. And I will also swear that the bold sound of a
cornet blended in to join it!
There you all go, another story based off of a daydream.
edit on 25/4/2015 by fossilera because: grammar