Restless fondling fingers along the strings, the bow drawn, the melody unceasing.
Rich ebony sound, filtering through the hidden recesses of every orifice within my crooked body.
Ah, he plays the violin so well, plays it like a man who paints a picture…
I expect that is the same caress a mother gives an infant…
I stir, then stop. He mustn't think I am anything but asleep…
Ah, he knows I am waking. Such uncanny knowledge. He knows.
He always knows…
If he knows, I shall not bother to hide my feelings.
I lay back, lean against these cushions, eyelids flutter closed.
Sweet notes, such beauty, cleansing, rinsing, a gentle stroke of sound brushing against the skin of my cheek.
And then a pause.
He hesitates?
The echo of the tune slides through my mind, and I am agitated…
Soft, a hand upon the coverlet.
My eyes flutter open, to see a gloved hand smooth the creases in the blanket.
He almost touches me…
Then he leans back and lifts the instrument to its former position.
In a moment I have forgotten that collision of our two wholes…
It will be displaced in the morning, I will not remember the brief act of compassion…
It will be displaced by the very real, very explainable actions of a monster…
But dreams hold him forever encased in that majesty of sound.
A light in the gloom…