A Suicidal Symphony

The door opened. He saw them sitting together, on the couch, watching something. He entered the room. The two noticed him. Why was he here? He looked at them. What was that in his hand? He raised his arm, until it was level with their faces. Why is he holding that? Their eyes grew wide. Please, don't!

The door opened. A young boy, around the age of fourteen with dark brown hair, walked inside. There were four chairs. He sat down on one of them and opened the cello case he was carrying. He set up and tuned. Done, he took in a deep breath, and began to warm up by playing Bach's Cello Suite No.1 in G.

Ah yes. It's times like these when I feel most alive. Hearing it, playing it, it just makes me feel so good. Music is such an honest medium. It tells you if you're bad. It tells you if you're good. I learned so much from it. That you need to follow the music, flow with it, listen to it. Music cannot be forced, cannot be demanded, cannot be commanded. And that was the beauty of music. It saved me and whisked me away. It showed me a different world.

A young girl, around the same age as the brown haired boy, with long, auburn hair, walked in. The boy stopped playing. The two looked at each other. "Morning," she said. He responded. She smiled and sat down next to him. She unpacked her violin and began tuning. "What're we playing?"

"Canon in D, by Pachelbel," he replied.

"The cello part is great, isn't it? You only need to play the same eight notes," she said. He stared.

Another young girl, around the same age as the first two, with short, pale blue hair, walked in. The boy smiled and said, "Good morning!" She ignored him and sat down next to the first girl. The red head sniggered. The blue haired girl simply took out her viola and began tuning as well. The boy looked at her tuning.

The world is connected to music, you know. Without experiencing different feelings, wonders, and whatnot, you cannot play music. The world is a beautiful place, and once that knowledge sinks in, the melodies become beautiful and pure. It is even a miraculous thing. Everything on this planet is here because of a miraculous event. One tiny accident in the system, and everything would have fallen apart. But everything is still holding on. The sun, the sky, the trees, the grass, the flowers. The clear water, refreshing air, wonderful wind, grains of sand. The people. My friends. My family. My mom. My sister. Everything. Everyone. It's all a miracle.

A young boy, around the same age as the other three, with white hair, walked in. "What're you looking at with such interest?" he asked the brown haired boy.

The red head shouted, "You're late!"

The boy smiled and replied, "Sorry, sorry."

He sat down next to the blue haired girl. He took out his violin and nodded at the others. They all began to tune their instruments. Once done, he asked, "Well then, shall we begin?"

The brown haired boy replied, "Yes."

It's interesting. With music, everything is meant to complement and fill each other. It's as if everything became a single entity when the song is played right. Everything works together in perfect harmony. And yet, if one person accidentally hits the wrong note, it all falls apart.

It's interesting how anything can be considered music. You can take anything, any sound, and if you have the imagination, it can become a beat, a melody, a harmony. Birds chirping, the fields of tall grass bending to the wind, the river. Cars, buses, subways, horns. Everything can become music.

It's interesting that all of this beauty comes to me now, as I listen to Canon, while in this room…There are two bodies by my side. Both have a hole in their heads, about nine millimeters wide. Blood is oozing out from the openings and pooling around the heads. The gun had been dropped by their side. I could hear footsteps. They were coming. I could hear an indistinct shout. Someone was probably telling me to drop the gun, which was pointless, seeing how I already did.

I sat there, listening to Canon, ignoring everything else, because, at this point, I realized nothing really mattered. I let the music wash over me, and when it started to climax, I rose with it. I picked up the gun. The police barged in. I smiled. The gun went off. The bullet ripped through my skull. As it tore through my brain, I could see my past, my projected future, my friends, my family. Everything. Nothing.

They were cut short by the sound of a gun. The brown haired boy took in a deep breath and sighed. He packed up along with the others, and left the room…static

The body dropped slowly. It moved as if it were in a sea of molasses. When the body finally slumped onto the ground, the hand slammed on top of the remote control. The VCR turned off. And then…static.

Author's Note: The title was originally Apt. (# of words), but as I edited, the numbers didn't fit for an apartment number, so I decided to change the title to the current one upon a friend's suggestion. Feel free to give some constructive criticism and whatnot, as I plan to submit this to a student run newsletter at my school.