"I love you. With all my heart. To the end of the ocean and back."
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FEATURED BY @StoriesUndiscovered
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Missy is a promising student of art, drawing wherever she goes. She is just as talented as quiet and she seems too indifferent to care...
Evie was playing again. On her childhood violin. Even though the strings were new. Even though we took care of them... melancholy and sentiment stored in them over the years, poured out.
he okayed her favourite pieces. And I knew all the reasons why she loved them.
8Humoresque, op. 101, B187, No.7, Poco lento a grazioso for its playfulness and yet longing concerto.
Vocalise,op.34, no.14, Sergei Rachmaninoff for the painful and straightforward agony of a person in love.
ViolinSonata no.1 in G Minor, BWV 1001: I. Adagio by J.S. Bach... she loved that one because she loved the way her fingers felt when she played it.
And then suddenly... an echo of the notes took over. She stopped playing. As if she was trying to purify the air of her music. Then... from under her fingers came a song I'd never heard before.
Anger was in the sounds she made. Her vibrato shook her whole being and even though she had scolded herself many times to stay still, even though she had learnt to play and not move, that day her whole body danced to the violin's angry, longing tunes.
When I thought she had finally calmed, a sharp tone cut through the air and Evi played with all her passion. And for the first time... I saw her truly angry. Pure anger mixed with sadness only added to her burning grief. Once she stopped... she started again. More passionately. More in control. I could not tear my eyes away.
Even though I knew I should. Even though I knew she was living in her most intimate moment. She seemed as if she had a conversation with herself through the violin.
An angry question, an accusation, an answer and more anger.
She was ruining herself in her world of sharp tunes and long, whimpering moans of the violin. And her eyes were just as teary as her heart was tearing. And she did not hide them away. Because in a way she had much more heart than I have. And if I could fall ill with only a thought, a single doubt could make her wither and die.
Her hand and fingers danced across the strings with elegance and such sureness. I have forgot how long she had played the violin. I forgot how much effort she put into her hand lotions and her movements even when she only picked something up. She screamed through her art and I felt closer to her than ever. She had closed her eyes. And even though she did not see, she played easily.
Oh, she poured so much of herself into those strings. Beads of sweat on her forehead. Red lips and stopped breath...
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