Love is a beautiful, imaginative, wonderful thing. Feeling loved by friends and family is like no other feeling in the world. Being able to rush into a lover's warm, soft arms is exhilarating and the number one source of comfort.

When people find that sort of love, they obsess over it. Let it become themselves and take over their insides. Nothing else crosses their minds other than the though of that warm, beautiful love.

Your lover should become your best friend, and your best friend should become your lover.

Love.

There is no love in my life, besides that of the violin and music.

Hi. My name is Demitria Lavensky.

---

I believe in nothing besides my ability to take complete control of my violin, Delilah. She submits to me and lets me run my fingers all over her lovely neck and body. My bow pushing gently into the strings, making wonderful sounds is like nothing else. The music I make with my darling Delilah fills me up and takes me in. It is a part of me, and I obsess over it.

There is nothing else for me in this terrible world, other than my music.

Music is my love, and it is who I am. I have nothing left in the world, beside my music.

My music is me.

---

The sound of my ringing phone wakens me from sleep. It is 3:03 a.m.

"Hello?" I say, and wait patiently for a reply.

It is 3:04 before I hear anything.

"Are you Demitria Lavensky?" drawls the deep voice of a man.

"That's my name. What do you want?"

"You."

and the line clicks dead.

---

"So you're telling me that your phone rang at 3:03 in the morning, with some creeper on the other line, wanting you, and then the phone goes dead?" Layn is my best friend. She always has been. Layn has beautiful long blond hair, and she plays the cello. Professionally, she wears her hair pinned up in a bun when she plays. When she practices, or plays for tips in a coffee shop, she lets her hair hang loose down her back and looks completely at peace.

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Did you call the police?"

"..."

"Demi," I cringe at this nickname. Layn knows I hate it and she only uses it when scolding me, "You should've called the police. Maybe they could have traced the call or something."

"..."

"Demi."

"What?"

"Don't be worried. Chances are it's just some creepy stalker who wants to be inside of your pleasure hole." Layn smirks, and I know she's joking.

"Thanks," sarcasm.

"Anytime."

---

I began playing the violin at the age of four and a half years old. I remember the day when my single mother handed me a case. I opened it, and inside was a beautiful, red violin, with a matching bow. I began taking lessons from Marketa Job at a local church, once a week. When I was five, Marketa told me that I'd never succeed at the violin unless I practiced.

I practiced at least half an hour a day, and occasionally got carried away and made it to an hour and a half. At six years old, I had my first recital. I remember the dress I wore. My mother had made it herself. Pink cloth, with ruffles, that came down about to my knees. I had pretty white shoes to match.

I don't remember the piece I played, but I remember hearing applause and being congratulated afterward.

Soon after, Marketa told me that I shouldn't think I'll be famous one day just because of one good performance. I shouldn't stop practicing violin just because I was good. Marketa told me that if I ever stopped practicing, she would drop me as a student.

Marketa never smiled. She was a woman of about thirty, very pretty, but with her black hair pulled back into a stern bun. She wore tight skirts and blazers every day, and occasionally tweed when she was feeling happy. She never wore any makeup. Her thin figure was the resault of lots of Pilate's and running all the time. I never heard her play anything she was working on, only things I was playing to make me sound worse than I actually was.

When I turned ten, Marketa died in the hospital after a car crash. She told the nurse to give her violin to me, Demitria Lavensky.

Marketa hadn't bothered to name her violin.

Delilah has been my companion ever since.