Work Text:
He picked up the violin, holding tightly onto the handle and he grabbed the bow. The wood had started to rot, the old material weak and the shining layer chipping off. A pang of pain ran through his chest, boaring into his heart and he grunted back tears. Pain, pain, pain.
Place the violin on your shoulder, lay your chin on the chinrest. Close your eyes. The bow's ribbon hit the strings of the violin as he took and placed the tips of his fingers on the strings, the slightest of noise escaping from the friction. Shame, shame, shame.
The bow slid back, only the sound of sorrow echoing in the auditorium. God forgives, that's what they say. God is gracious, that's what they say. Beauty was the next melody spinning in the room, beauty so weak and mild. God is forgiving. God is generous. Notes pass and fingertips dance on the strings of the instrument, pain, pain, pain dancing in the air. God is good. God is loving. Explosions happened in his head, agony, not pain, shot through his eyes. Light in the shade of black danced in his head, making itself at home and he shut his mouth. Home, home home.
Where was that? Home. God is home. God was home.
The bow needed to be waxed. The violin needed to be tuned. This music wasn't beautiful, it was something you take out of the house of an alcoholic dragging their family with them down to hell. Down to the depths of hell where God punished you for your sins, the part of you that was human. The part of you that felt. The part of you that was dirty. Dirty, dirty, dirty.
The blood, sweat and tears behind something beautiful is what people don't like to see. God is going to forgive, that's what they say. God is going to reward, that's what they say. Will God pay him for the tears he shed, for the blood he lost and for the sweat he gave up? Was God going to forgive his sins? His only sin? Will God pay him for what he lost when God gave him no choice but to lose it?
Continuous rhythms and mistakes flew in the air over his head, crimson liquid dripped from his eyes. Drip, drip, drip.
Oh, God. The weight sitting on his shoulders sank and so did he, landing on his bruised knees. Sparks of discomfort shot through him but for no avail. The violin still rested against his neck and he choked his sob, tightened the grip on the bow and he continued. Continued, continued continued. That's what he did.
Deranged notes and chords swung over his head, agonisingly quick to reach climax. Just it didn't. As it was a curse how he couldn't stop. Dirty, dirty, dirty.
Bow against violin, bow against violin, ribbon against strings. A violent churn from his own instrument hidden away in his throat combined with the melody that was supposed to be big and glorious, but was instead small and pathetic like him joined in, indescribable anguish sounding throughout the auditorium.
The wetness from his eyes had made a pool under his knees. Torture of the mind didn't leave. Where was God? God is going save us, that's what they said. God was going to bring us out of the hell on Earth, that's what they said. Torture, torture, torture.
It wasn't long before he cried, violin and bow thrown to the ground. Blood, sweat and tears. Sweat trickled down the skin of his forehead. Blood pooled under him. Tears were forever stained on his soul. One move back and he hit the ground, trembles shook his whole being. Shades of red was what he saw. Red, red, red.
Alcoholic aromas and broken bones. He sat on them like his throne, but a throne is glorious. He sat in his pain, that's what he thought. Alcohol bottles and smashed plates. Violin lessons. The violin wasn't tuned and the bow wasn't waxed.
God?