Violoncello
One.
Violoncello.
There is a still, sweltering heaviness in the air. The windows are open, and the welcomed breeze of the summer rushes in. Darkness floods room after room, its shadows clashing with the dust of the sheets draped over the antiquated furniture.
A slow, sad whine echoes through the doorways, the scent of burned wood clinging to the purple walls. The lonely house is quiet in the night, perching ever so slightly on the high cliff above the ocean. Every light is off, except for the embers on the hearth and the lingering moon.
Seated upon a simple wooden chair, a woman moves her hands sleepily over a mahogany cello, in the glow of the dead fire. Her eyes are shut, and her mouth is barely open, inviting the warmth into her lungs. There is a passion in her movements: a search for something; a longing for rest, and reason.
Nothing exists now except her and the instrument in her hand. Back and forth the melody is slow and then swift, over and over. The mess of her hair clings to her forehead and cheeks, and her lips are swollen. Exhaustion sweeps through her body as she throws what is left of her heart into the vibration of the strings.
The music surrenders to halt, ending the well practiced piece. She looks around the dark sitting room, her hand resting on the top of the cello.
Betrayal.
"I don't love you anymore."
His hand wavered between his forehead and his five o'clock shadow. His breathing dripped with passion and unkempt feelings of remorse. She could hear his heart beating even from the other side of the room, and she never felt so far away from him.
The thunder rolled. A flash of light fell across the shiny table which she sat at, her dinner growing cold and her wine becoming lonely. Her expression was grim and stern, in contrast to the clean curls of her hair, pinned up in the 1920s fashion, and the velvet red lipstick from which her elegance flowed.
"I could stand here and tell you that as many times as you can stand to hear it," he almost whispered. "But it would make a difference." He paused, turning towards the window to the ocean. "It's not like I didn't love you--I did. That's just it. I did. Not anymore."
It was such a roaring pain that shot through her chest as she remembered how she used to see him: utterly handsome and painfully desirable. He had always been that way: beautiful and mannered, dressed in a black suit and hair slicked back. His face was shaped like a Greek statue and his shoulders were broad, full of pride. Youth once blazed through his veins and seeped from his eyes; she remembered how wild they were. It was so fucking gorgeous.
Only now did she see how ugly he really was.
He turned back, expecting a response. She sat in the scent of the candle, still and silent. Her silk hands remained gripping the clean silverware. She gazed into his eyes, two black diamonds falling away from her into the sea.
"If you have nothing to say, Elizabeth, I might as well leave now."
She continued to glare at him, a feeling of total betrayal sinking in. A white hot knife embedded itself into her heart, sending a throbbing pain through her blood circuit. She hadn't moved since he confessed. Her inhales became excruciating and she lost feeling of her limbs. It was not a shock to hear this; she knew long before he knew, she just didn't want to believe it.
There is a still, sweltering heaviness in the air. The windows are open, and the welcomed breeze of the summer rushes in. Darkness floods room after room, its shadows clashing with the dust of the sheets draped over the antiquated furniture.
A slow, sad whine echoes through the doorways, the scent of burned wood clinging to the purple walls. The lonely house is quiet in the night, perching ever so slightly on the high cliff above the ocean. Every light is off, except for the embers on the hearth and the lingering moon.
Seated upon a simple wooden chair, a woman moves her hands sleepily over a mahogany cello, in the glow of the dead fire. Her eyes are shut, and her mouth is barely open, inviting the warmth into her lungs. There is a passion in her movements: a search for something; a longing for rest, and reason.
Nothing exists now except her and the instrument in her hand. Back and forth the melody is slow and then swift, over and over. The mess of her hair clings to her forehead and cheeks, and her lips are swollen. Exhaustion sweeps through her body as she throws what is left of her heart into the vibration of the strings.
The music surrenders to halt, ending the well practiced piece. She looks around the dark sitting room, her hand resting on the top of the cello.
Betrayal.
"I don't love you anymore."
His hand wavered between his forehead and his five o'clock shadow. His breathing dripped with passion and unkempt feelings of remorse. She could hear his heart beating even from the other side of the room, and she never felt so far away from him.
The thunder rolled. A flash of light fell across the shiny table which she sat at, her dinner growing cold and her wine becoming lonely. Her expression was grim and stern, in contrast to the clean curls of her hair, pinned up in the 1920s fashion, and the velvet red lipstick from which her elegance flowed.
"I could stand here and tell you that as many times as you can stand to hear it," he almost whispered. "But it would make a difference." He paused, turning towards the window to the ocean. "It's not like I didn't love you--I did. That's just it. I did. Not anymore."
It was such a roaring pain that shot through her chest as she remembered how she used to see him: utterly handsome and painfully desirable. He had always been that way: beautiful and mannered, dressed in a black suit and hair slicked back. His face was shaped like a Greek statue and his shoulders were broad, full of pride. Youth once blazed through his veins and seeped from his eyes; she remembered how wild they were. It was so fucking gorgeous.
Only now did she see how ugly he really was.
He turned back, expecting a response. She sat in the scent of the candle, still and silent. Her silk hands remained gripping the clean silverware. She gazed into his eyes, two black diamonds falling away from her into the sea.
"If you have nothing to say, Elizabeth, I might as well leave now."
She continued to glare at him, a feeling of total betrayal sinking in. A white hot knife embedded itself into her heart, sending a throbbing pain through her blood circuit. She hadn't moved since he confessed. Her inhales became excruciating and she lost feeling of her limbs. It was not a shock to hear this; she knew long before he knew, she just didn't want to believe it.