Creative Writing: The Violin

He held an old violin in his hands with far more care than the owner had ever held the instrument in its entire life. His mouth curled up in a sneer as he looked down at the poor thing. The moment the violin had arrived in his possession he had disliked the owner of it for several reasons. For one thing, he had a smug, youthful curl to his lip, and his collar was mussed.

Despite the fact that he generally looked like a corpse that had crawled out of a grave and then took a stroll in the rain, Erik still had the mind to dress decently and be mindful how he presented himself. The man that had walked in holding a violin around the neck clearly did not care about that.

So when the man sat the instrument on the counter, leaning his elbows on

He jabbed his finger at the violin. It was covered in dust and the A and E strings were snapped, the front ends of them curled up on themselves like dead insects. What did the man do to it, take a hacksaw to the strings? He might has well have done, judging by how the ends of the strings were frayed.

Erik pulled the instrument closer to himself, perhaps out of a misplaced protective instinct. "Yes, I can. Do you want to sell it to someone else as well? This violin needs special care."

The man shrugged his broad shoulders, flexing his jaw. "No, I just want it fixed. How much will it be?"

"Thirty-five dollars." Oh, he knew very well that replacing violin strings typically only cost twenty dollars, but he wasn't feeling like being generous with this customer, even if this was one of the very few customers that had come in that week.

The man frowned, putting one hand on the counter and staring down at the violin as if he was thinking about taking it back and attempting to fix it himself. If he tried that, he'd probably end up making the violin sound like a squealing rat being slowly strangled to death.

"Fine. Call me when it's fixed, here's my number." The man pulled out a pen, and then a crumpled piece of paper that had several items scribbled out. The man wrote down his

And despite how strict and distant his tutor had been, Erik owed the wealthy, retired man for his freedom. He'd partially helped Erik get the money he needed to leave France (and leave behind every dark memory made there) and attend a private musical college in America.

His college years were best forgotten, and he did the very best that he could to avoid remembering them. Suffice it to say that college students weren't the most understanding individuals when it came to facial deformities and reclusive personality traits. He'd long ago given up attempting to have a vocal career with a face like his, so he'd settled into an instrumental career. Perhaps it was better that way. Instruments hardly cared about someone's face, all they cared about was how one played them. He'd then gone on to have a long career in an orchestra as a violinist, but still, sometimes even that wasn't enough.

Certainly he played beautiful music, but the sound of his violin was lost among the tones of the rest of the orchestra. And he had no creative freedom. Over the years, he'd written stacks upon stacks of music, each score gently laid to rest inside of a drawer. Every time he moved, he always removed his scores with reverent--sometimes trembling hands--and placed them in a plastic box that he always checked repeatedly to be certain he hadn't misplaced them or that they hadn't been damaged in some