Work Text:
Chase was 10 years old when he played the violin for the first time.
For years, he watched his mother coax smooth melodies from her violin; her face melting into a peaceful, serene expression that he only saw when she played. The house was almost constantly suffused with the soft melodies produced by his mother’s skilled hands. Though he would not have the ability to verbalise this for nigh on 2 decades, the little boy wondered what about the odd wooden object could capture his mother’s attention more than her two children.
One night, he waited until the house was asleep and crept down to the study where the violin hung in its case when it wasn’t being used. He dragged his father’s office chair to the wall and clambered up onto it to unhook the case from its place. He carefully placed the case onto the carpeted floor and undid the metal clasps as he had watched his mother do many times before. He pulled the instrument out and released the bow from where it was tied down in the case and attempted to position the violin the way he recalled his mother did.
Rest the body on the collarbone and support with the left shoulder. Hold bow at the base with the thumb resting on the wooden stick, making sure not to poke through the space between the wood and the bow fibres.
He could see in his mind’s eye every step his mother took to prepare herself for her craft and followed them as closely as he could. It felt almost like he was remembering something he had long since forgotten, rather than trying something for the first time. He raised the bow and attempted to play a simple melody. He cringed when the sound was not smooth and lilting but harsh and grating. Not to be deterred, he tried again with a lighter hand and was rewarded with a slightly less painful sound coming from the violin. He sat there on the floor for as long as he could stay awake that night and eventually fell asleep with his head pillowed by the velvet interior of the violin case, clutching his mother’s violin to his chest.
When his mother’s drinking finally hit a boiling point the summer he turned 15, Chase’s father left and the music that had once lived and breathed within the walls of the house ceased to be. Her hands were far too weak and unsteady to hold down the violin strings and his hands were full juggling all the balls his parents had dropped. The house grew quieter every month, every year, until finally Chase’s mother succumbed to her illness, his sister graduated high school and he found a job at a teaching hospital in the United States. It was time to let go. He took his mother’s violin with him, anyway.
He stopped playing the violin after he moved to New Jersey. It wasn’t a deliberate decision, it just happened over time. It began with small things. He was simply too tired after a long day getting ridiculed by House, or he decided to spend his nights familiarising himself with the latest medical research in various journals he was subscribed to. Whether it was deliberate or not, Chase hadn’t touched his (mother’s) violin for half a year. He felt particularly homesick. Although his home was never the most comfortable place in the world, it was familiar. It may not have been safe but it was where he raised his sister, where he saw his mother for the last time.
He lay on his side on his bedroom floor and eyed the case where it sat under his bed before reaching for the handle and pulling it out.
He opened the case fluidly, like he had so many times before, and pulled the violin out, cradling it carefully. He had tried his best to keep it in good condition over the years, cleaning it with a dry, soft cloth after every use and wiping the strings down with a special solution every so often. The violin, in return, took care of him during the most difficult years taking care of his mom and sister. When it all got too much, and his head got too full, and he felt like he was about to implode under the strain of it all, it allowed him to express what he felt through its mellow voice.
He composed a lot of music that last year of his mother’s life. It was the only way he felt he could express himself without judgement from his sister or ridicule from his father. It was like a diary written in a language only he could read. He took all those manuscripts with him when he left Australia but could never bring himself to revisit that time of his life in his own head, let alone through the art he made to keep himself sane. They lived in a box at the back of his closet, gathering dust, and probably being eaten by termites.
The violin shone in his careful grip and he placed it in its proper position under his chin as he had done so many times before. It was instinctual, as if no time had passed. The opening strains of the last piece he composed in Australia began pouring out of him. It was mournful and angry and cathartic. Everything he hadn’t allowed himself to feel since he left home. He felt his eyes close and they began to burn before filling with tears. He felt 10 years old again, playing his mother’s violin in the study, thinking he had found the ticket to her attention. He felt 15 years old, watching her destroy herself, leaving her child to raise his sister. He felt 25 again, leaving everything and everyone he had ever known and moving to the other side of the world to escape.
Tears now running down his cheeks, Chase played the last measure of his piece and opened his eyes, feeling simultaneously lighter and heavier than he had in years. He collapsed heavily onto his bed, placing the violin and bow carefully between his body and his pillows. Wiping his face roughly with his sleeve, he took several deep breaths and tried to calm himself down. He ran his hands through his hair, scratching his scalp the way he used to do for his sister when she got anxious about school or boys or their parents. It just made him feel worse, reminding himself he’d never had someone to do that for him.
He pulled himself together and replaced the violin and bow in their case, shutting the lid and securing it with finality. He held the case for a moment and then moved to his closet and dug through the clothes and random bits of crap that littered its floor before digging out the box he was looking for. He opened it and a plume of dust erupted, causing him to choke even though he was trying desperately to fan the dust away. He sneezed and placed the violin case atop all the sheets of manuscript paper at the bottom of the box. He replaced the lid and then the layers of clothes and miscellaneous stuff that previously hid the box from view. There. Out of sight, out of mind.
Chase got up from where he was kneeling in his closet, brushed his knees off, and closed the closet door with a final click.