Violinist (CENTURIES series: Book #4)

14

"Tony." My breath turned white in the cold air, just as my body heated when his eyes locked with mine. Unlike the snow, they were burning and remained hard as stone.

"I need the violin," He gnashed out, like the admittance was too foul to repeat again. It wasn't surrender, it was... acceptance. Five days. That's how long it had taken him to battle his way back here, through the minefield in his mind.

That's why, with no words at all, I unlocked the door and let Tony step in first. We walked up the stairs in silence, Tony trailing behind me. I unlocked the second door and stepped aside like a servant.

He walked steadfastly towards the suitcase. His shoes dragged wet footprints across the wooden floor, but I didn't care as I trailed after him, my own doing the same. I sat down in my armchair, took off my boots, but left my overcoat and scarf on as he picked up the violin and stared at it.

For one burning minute, I tried imagining what he saw when he looked at the wooden instrument.

You hold the key to my past. Everything I am is inside you, but you won't give it to me. I can make you sing, but I cannot make you talk. Why? Why?

I held my breath when he finally lifted the violin and pressed it to his chin. Raising the bow, he put it to the strings.

And then, he tortured.

By the time his manic sawing stopped, my ears were bleeding and my eyes were crying. He forced the droplets out of me, made them fall and take whatever emotions I had inside me with them. The hollowness inside my chest dissipated and got filled up with everything instead, too much for me to handle. It came out in the shape of tears, silent unlike their true nature.

"Did you remember anything?" My voice jerked the words out of my throat without any rhythm. They were weak, simple, emotionless. I could no longer see who tortured who; the violin him, him me, or him the violin. Or me him?

The grit of his teeth was my answer. He had remembered nothing. Looking at the violin, his eyes turned angry, wrathful. Why? Why?

Its silence was a mockery. The wooden tool laughed in his face. You can torture me all you want, I'm never giving you what you need.

I stood up. Wiping my eyes, I discarded my jacket and scarf, throwing it on the couch next to him. I was walking towards my room when the silence was broken once again.

"Why do you care?"

I stopped up. Like frozen to the spot by his voice, my limbs turned to ice.

Why did I care? I didn't. Or did I? The question shouldn't be why. It should be how.

He was a complete stranger. I knew nothing more about him than he probably did himself, and the times we had really talked together could be counted on one hand. So how could I possibly care?

"I don't know," I whispered.

I heard his footsteps cross the floor. When the bulk of his shadow swallowed mine in the dark, I closed my eyes and felt my heart stutter in my chest.

His hands came to my hips. His touch seared through me and made my breath turn erratic as he slowly made me turn around and face him. He lifted my chin up, cupped my face; forced me to meet his eyes. My respiratory stopped as I saw the darkness in them, the deep, permanent indent between his brows as he stared me down. His blue orbs searched mine, dug into me, tore apart my façade and stripped my soul naked.

A tear rolled down my chin. I didn't even know why I was crying this time.

His lips parted, and then they were moving against mine. I closed my eyes and drowned in his torture as he consumed me; took my soul from me.