by Gloria Pickens

Created on: October 04, 2009

The room is so quiet, empty. I'll sit facing the fire while the cold stings my back like a thousand needles attempting a murder. The only sounds are the single log crackling under the flames and the violinist at the very edge of the room, standing in the darkness, playing a melody so tragic that it stops the fire in mid blaze. I gape at the lifeless inferno, goose bumps arising from the lack of heat. I cannot blink and my eyes begin to dry up and produce salty water, one drop falling from the far corner of each eye. The motionless fire weeps with me, as its purpose to heat has been defeated and it is left only with the purpose to light. Shadows fall upon my face as the strings continue to vibrate from the darkness. I wonder if the fire will ever come back to life, or if I will sit here forever, frozen to death by a musical tragedy. Each note breaks the silence and my heart drops a little more with each stroke of the horsehair across the strings. I will never move again. Icicles have begun to form on the arms of my red chair. This chair is so hideous, but I've spent so much time painting its legs, scrubbing its fabric, and yet it does not even belong to me. It will sit on display for the world to see. I'll walk past it every morning and barely notice it. That red chair is situated under a giant belief. A belief in something that doesn't exist. Only the minority still believes in such a fairytale, although there is proof to claim the deceit of this fable. The chair ices over and I turn to ice as though I belong to it. If my pleading alone could stop the music, I would not. The tune is so beautiful I'd never want to hear another sound. If I must die this way, I have no regrets. My soul is touched with each dismal note that travels through the air, the air which is now thick with ice. How much longer until the violin convenes with its death? It can't be much longer now; the fire has said its farewells and now lies in a wooden grave. Light is nonexistent in this glacial room and I hear the sounds changing from the violin. I no longer hear sweet, heartbreaking music, but only the sound of ice scraping against ice. The bow caresses the strings slower and slower until it cannot move anymore. The violinist's arm begins to slow into an ice sculpture and when the music ceases I am aware of his suicide. How I wish I could shut my eyes and embrace this frosty demise. My eyes have turned to ice inside my head and appear as glass against my blue face. I will stare into the darkness for eternity and I will see worlds that only my deceased imagination can witness in the obscurity.

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