In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Final Trio.”
I thought I would try out my first writing prompt from The Daily Post because why not? “For our final trio prompt of the year, write about any topic you wish, but make sure your post features a bookcase, something cracked, and a song you love.”
It just lays there, gathering dust that lazily falls upon it. The shine of the morning sun rays beam through my patio door, accenting its hazelnut color; that same color pops out from the dark brown wooden shelves of my loaded bookcase, demanding my attention. My violin still remains as delicate as ever. The joy of playing that instrument has gotten me through some of the worst times of my life, but now I have had to find different distractions. I can’t touch it. I can’t play it. I’m even afraid to go near it.
My mom always told me that nothing good happens after 2am at night. People seem to think that alcohol is my best friend, but alcohol is my convenient friend I use to numb my loneliness; to make me not hate every single day of my life at the call center. I lost count how many times I have come back from the local tavern and played my violin until sun up.
If my hands would have been steady. If I wouldn’t have been an idiot. If I would have actually paid attention, I wouldn’t have dropped the only thing that makes me feel happy on this Earth.
Cornwell, Hemingway, Poe, Twain, and Fitzgerald’s works are among the 1000s of printed paper on that bookcase. Beethoven, Bach, Brahm, and Handel’s masterpieces are nestled on the shelf just below the violin; the pages and pages of music are bent, scribbled on, and disorganized. I used to be able to play that violin for hours each day. There was no better feeling than playing Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” as it was a song that could put my sadness to peace for the night. Never again will my spine tingle as I play the winter section during a light snowstorm. I can’t pick it up and pluck the summer season as I watch the wind drift through the green trees in my back yard. The color of fall seems dull and uninteresting when I can’t play its respective section of “Four Seasons” to accompany it. The pitter-patter of spring showers sounds empty without me belting out its quiet and ominous theme.
Now, I can’t bring myself to touch it because if that violin splinters just one more inch, my heart breaks. I know it sounds stupid; it’s an inanimate object, but when you have played the same physical instrument for the past 25 years, it becomes a part of you.
Now, I just stare at it. It stares back with the wide crack slithering down the finger board. For some reason I just want to yell “SORRY!” through my tears. I broke my best friend. I can’t fix it. Too fucking expensive.
My hands are shaking again; I don’t even know if its my anger or another craving, but I guess it’s time to pour another glass…