sjsprWriting

Most of his music came from her. Her black eyes. Her long, undulating hair. Her pallid face. Her thick, pink lips.

He imagined her as he heard the soft sounds in his head. Sounds like her slow whispers, her faint laughter, her delicate exhales.

He never quite wrote well when she was not present in his thoughts.

Instead, every single note was dissonant – uncouth to the ears. Rampant like the words of an angry man.

No, no. He could not write without her.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“She isn’t here today, is she?”

He’d swallow in his pain, his agony. No, he thought. She isn’t here. But, he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“She’s coming,” he’d finally say.

“Soon?”

Malignant sounds now denigrated his decaying mind.

“Don’t mock me.”

“If you know she’s coming-.”

“Don’t.”

“Why are you so afraid?”

He would have to cover his ears by then. Those sharp, piercing sounds only penetrated his heart. Where? He would search desperately in the deepest entrails of his shattered vessel.

Come, come, come.

The music cracked. Chipped. Useless. Those who heard it only felt displeased.

“Wasn’t she coming?”

Come.

Come.

Come.

His pleads became jarring cries of helplessness.

A fragile hand lightly grazed his shoulder. His blurred vision could not focus on what it tried so anxiously to see.

The music sheets were damp, slithering away in salted, minuscule streams of disillusionment.

The same hand picked them up, crumpling them into crinkly orbs.

A cringe of imperfection.

The music was torn apart. Squeezed. Gutted.

His eyes closed. His mouth opened, letting out the most acute sobs.

A pungent liquid flowed into his mouth, drenching the shrill whimpers.

“Why are you so afraid?”

A loud gulp.

He slowly opened his eyes.

Black eyes. Long, undulating hair. A pallid face. Thick, pink lips.

“You…”

A gentle caress.

“Where has it gone? Tell me.”

My music, he thought. You’ve taken it.

But, he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“You’ve given it to me.”