non-existent

His cello strings were stained red. Blood red.

But it didn’t matter. Not to him, anyway. It was more important to finish that concerto. The tricky trills and rapid upward-moving scales. The expressive, mellow, singing melody lines played with wide vibratos.

It was flawless. Of course it was. He had lost count of the hours he spent perfecting every single detail. He had lost count of the number of times he had lost himself in the piece, leading to temperamental fluctuations and lashing out at people around him. He had lost count of the number of times we woke up in the middle of the night, breaking out in cold sweat, from nightmares of the piece that haunted him.

But it was worth it, for this was everything he had imagined it to be. He could visualize a girl in the attic, looking at a broken mirror, crying for what would never be hers as he played the adagio section. He could see it. The way she shrieked in hysteria upon seeing the lifeless body on the wooden floor as he gradually increased the tempo, as the minims became semiquavers over a crescendo. It was so clear, in his mind, the way she pounded on the walls that slowly closed in on her, to the beat of his accented chords.

And how the fermata over the last note died away, along with her last plea for help.
_____

17 days. Miracles will happen after we put in hard work.