Violin Strings

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Violin Strings

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The instrument is familiar under my fingers, the smooth wood and the raw strings waiting for me to slide the bow across. It's been ages since I've played, but somehow I can remember the notes, the fingering, the vibrant sound that I know the violin will produce. I pick up the bow.

My violin was a gift, a godsend. I learned to play when I was only five, fumbling with the neck and feeling the bow awkward in my hand. As I grew up, I grew into the instrument. When I turned eleven, and prepared for the seven long years at Hogwarts, I was torn. It was custom to leave it behind, but I didn't think I could. So I took it with me, and kept playing. I found it to be a refuge, not just an instrument, not just music. It was a place that I could escape to. Without it, I don't think I would've made it.

My family has owned the violin for decades, centuries. It was passed to me from my father, who inherited it from his father, and his father before him, back into the years no one can remember. Someday I will have a son who will play it.

I know that the sound will be rich and mature inside the dark wooden body. As I rosin the bow I laugh. The rosin is thick and yellowing, sticky and messy. I think of the spell I could use to rosin the bow, but I know that the sound will be richer with real rosin instead.

Outside it starts to rain. For a moment, I listen to the rhythm, the uncertain syncopation it beats on the roof. I close my eyes, and start to play. The violin drops notes like tears. Suddenly I remember.

*

She stood straight, her chin forward and proud. Her mouth formed a horizontal line, but it wasn't perfect. The edges fought to fold. Meeting her eyes, I found tears collecting. I longed to reach out and touch her, comfort her, gather her in my arms and protect her, but I knew it wasn't possible. I had run out of options.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I wish there was something..." I trailed off. I didn't know how to finish my thought.

"No, you don't," she spat at me, turning to stare out a window. Her voice was thick and strained from trying to hold back the air that would dissolve into sobs. I wished I could cry with her. "You never wanted this to happen, did you?"

"Don't say that," I murmured. "Please don't say things like that. You know it isn't true." My strength was deteriorating. I needed to get out of there fast.

She turned her face to me again, her face turning red from the effort of trying not to let her tears flow. "That's just the thing. I don't know."

*

I remember her, unlike the way I remember the strings of the instrument I hold in my hand. The violin is a constant, something in the universe I can count on to always be there, to always sound the same, to always deliver the message I want to hear. I know I will always be able to play, be able to disappear into that world of notes and strings with the touch of bow to instrument.

She's gone.

Not only is she gone, physically gone, but my memories of her are gone too. I don't remember the things she said to me, the things she did. I don't remember the scenarios we caught ourselves in. I have only snippets of what she was.

I remember the thickness of her hair when I curled my fist around it, but not the texture. I remember her eyes, and their depths, but not what I once saw inside. I remember her hands, and the places they once touched burn, but I can't picture the length and grace of the fingers. The way she walked, the way she laughed, the way she slipped so perfectly into my arms. I remember the tones of her voice, the twisting way her intelligence wrapped around her words, but I don't remember anything she said. I remember her face, but the features are slightly blurred, flawed where I know they were once perfect.

The rain starts falling faster, slashing at the windows and walls, and the violin's tune began to scream with agony as I cling to evidence of her existence.

*

When I got there, she was standing in the window. She'd changed out of her school uniform into a sweater and jeans, but the moonlight frosted her hair and she looked like a goddess.

"You're beautiful tonight," I murmured, keeping my voice low. I smiled gently when she blushed.

"Um... thank you...you look great too," she stammered. I laughed.

"Don't get me started. I just got out of the shower."

But her...her eyes floated up to meet mine, the spicy chocolate pouring like liquid into my soul. I watched her hands reach up and pull a piece of her thick hair behind her ear, letting the moonlight illuminate her face. She looked ageless, timeless, a Greek goddess cast in marble. The realization struck me; I didn't want her to be stone. I wanted to feel her breathe against me. Was she living?

She moved close to me, and I wrapped my arms gently around her. Her chest expanded against me as she took a deep breath.

"I love you," she said, meeting my eyes again. I didn't reply. Instead I pressed my lips to hers, and felt her succumb to me.

*

She meant the world to me. Though I never told her, I loved her. Did she know that? Should I have whispered the words to her as I held her close, her breath fanning on my neck? If I had told her, would she have let me say the other things I did? Would she have let me shut her out? Did she even know how much that hurt me?

I only hold two memories of her complete. One is the night I realized it was impossible. The other is the night I told her it was. I can remember the tears she never shed and the way we both knew it was true and neither of us tried to fight it. Would it have been different if we'd fought it? Could we have fought it? Evil was gathering in the corners, plotting against us, but was I wrong? Were we strong enough together to triumph?

The rain keeps pounding down, tearing at the walls, but my violin's song quiets and ends. I take the instrument out from under my chin, looking at its perfect shape. I know I will always be able to turn to it for an escape.

I wish I could turn to her instead.