The Violinist

She sat in her cold, stiff, hard backed chair, her wooden bow resting on the scratched table before her. She was pale, shaking with anger and unshed tears. The old violin was in her lap; her neck twisted around it so the pegs dug into the nape of her neck. She sighed and her eyes brimmed with tears. One hand, small and petite, ran down the edge of the violin, fingering the f-holes, the bridge, the strings. She loved the old violin. It was her constant companion. Her friends didn't see how she could spend so much time practicing it or how she could be in school orchestra and two out-of-school orchestras. To them, such commitment was impossible.
Finally she could hold back the tears no longer. The salty drops fell from her long lashes onto the old violin, streaking down it. She didn't even move to wipe them off; she just let them fall, one by one.
"I loved you so much." her words were choked and slurred. She cried harder over the instrument that was her life. It was almost as though the instrument heard her, for it seemed warmer to the touch, easing the numbness in her body.
She wiped off the dust with her hand one last time and picked up her bow. She walked to her battered case, lying in the corner. With another sob she put the old violin away and it was left in the corner to gather dust.
She was the violinist, but only in her eyes, for none cared to look upon her with even a shred of respect. She was a flower, the kind that blooms early and stays strong. But this flower wilted from lack of care.