You can kill me now for my drabbles and my lack of updates on an actual story with an actual plot. No regrets on writing this story though.
The delicate and pale hairs of the bow pulled gently across the metal strings, sounding fragile and delicate yet also strong as if the notes were made of glass, easily broken yet sturdy. As the bow moved down the width of the instrument, more notes issued from the vibrating strings rubbing against the trembling hairs, a beautiful symphony of values and tones contrasting each other to form a singing melody. The song took the player over mountaintops, across wide stretches of grassy plains, beneath the deep seas, and even into places where none ventured yet. It sounded like anger, yet it quickly changed to sorrow followed by a conversation between octaves and the crisp and graceful steps of a doe with a rippling river of notes in the background. After some time, the bow came to a gentle stop, halting with its tip near the bridge, and the last note diminished, fading into the night.
She sighed as the last note echoed in her head, a beautiful ringing tone.
Oh, how she adored her violin.
She sits on her couch with her head hanging down, silently slapping the bow against her knees. She knows it's a bad habit to fall into, but she can't help it. She feels like something is wrong, terribly wrong, but she does not know what is bothering her. Her thin and worn fingers pluck the strings of her most prized possession, the violin she adored so dearly, its knobs and wood feeling so familiar under her touch. Slowly, she rises from her seat, walking from the interior of her house and into the cold night air, fresh and sharp, making her breath rise up in misty puffs of smoke. She walks down the road, enjoying having her mind off her audition the next day.
Suddenly, as she walks down the sidewalk, soles quietly slapping against the concrete, she is blinded by a bright light, greeted by the blare from a horn, and her ears pierced by the screeching of wheels trying to halt. She tries to get out of the path of the uncontrolled car, tries to avoid the crash, raising her hand as a shield even though she knows it wouldn't help.
It's too late.
She will never play again, and that's what they will tell her. Her hand will be beyond repair from the car crash, the fault of a drunk driver, beyond any chance of recovering. It will be a useless hand, that's what they will say. Modern medicine will not help her in this situation–not this time.
She will sit by her fireplace, looking into the deep and blazing fire, her eyes empty and hollow, resembling that of a dead corpse. She will stroke her bow, feeling each and every one of the hairs carefully, savoring its touch against her skin. She will finger the strings of her precious wooden instrument, the beautifully carved violin with graceful curved sides, elegant and dainty. She will see a teardrop land on the polished brown surface, reflecting the taunting red fire, see her hand clench around the metal strings. She will cry, a rivers of salt flowing freely down her face, sobs wracking her body and causing her to bend over.
And finally, with an angry cry of grief, frustration, and anger, she will throw the violin and the bow into the fire. She will watch as the flickering tongues lick the polished wood, watching the flames engulf the last of her prize and hope, turning it into nothing more than dead dreams, shattered hope, broken promises, and a pile of dark ashes.