The mellow sounds of a violin floated up and hovered over the blur of people. Bright synthetic light shone down from the ceiling, settling as a fluorescent glow in the darkness. Conversation existed only through mobile phones, apart from the quick nods to others passing. The Quick tapping of shoes on the hard concrete made a rhythmic beat for the violin to follow as the notes were drawn out and projected through the lit tunnel. Sharply dressed businessmen and women spared no time to observe the life around them as they continued on their way, presumably to work.
The violinist moved as if possessed by the sad tunes coming from the instrument he played. The wooden stool upon which the man sat creaked and groaned, as he slowly drew his delicate bow across well-used strings to create a low bitter note. His hair was coarse and thick and hung over his eyes to shield him from the things he did not wish to see, people rushing past him, as if to escape from the mellow melodies he made.
It wasn’t like this before, the man thought. People had paid to see him play. The sound of a child’s cry echoed throughout the tunnel and mixed within his music. An elderly man, speaking quickly into the earpiece he wore, dropped some spare change as he rushed by. The coins dinged onto the closed lid of his leathery case, bounced on the solid floor and rolled away. The violinist peeked through a gap in his messy fringe to watch a silver coin roll in between a lady’s legs and off the platform.
The violinist sighed. The elderly man had already disappeared.
I don’t want your money he thought. I just want you to listen.
The violinist remembered his past like it was a second life. The bright banners. The fanatic crowds. The screaming cheers. Everyone had loved him. The Prodigy they called him. It was all a façade, no emotion. Music so empty, his soul ached in the memory. For them it was all for show. He was all for show.
The whoosh and whip of a train ricocheted through the tunnel and continued straight into the darkness. The violinist often compared himself to the trains. They were frighteningly fast and shot into the darkness without a moment of hesitation. He thought he moved a lot slower, giving himself time to agonize over the darkness to come. He wasn’t sure if he would see the light again, unlike the trains, which would resurface at the next station.
He continued playing his morbid melody with the skill of a master, still, nobody stopped. Nobody listened. Why couldn’t they hear him? Hear the emotion, the grief, the sadness that came pouring out and echoed throughout the tunnels and through his mind? The people here moved through their lives with blinkers on, only seeing their destination.
The sounds of the child’s cry came closer until the whimpering was emitted from in front of the violinist. The violinist, who before was completely immersed in his music, opened his eyes. A child, no older than five, sat in front of the violinist with her arms wrapped around her legs and her tearstained eyes staring up at him. The two stared at each other as his music continued and the child’s cry quieted into a soft sniffling. However, the tears continued. Seeing this, the violinist shifted his tune to a softer gentler melody.
“Pretty,” the girl whispered.
The violinist’s eyes widened and his heart rate sped up to match the tempo of the graceful tune. His breath quickened and so did the speed of his bow, which began to project bright notes as he stared at the girl, listening to his music with a smile. Before, all he wanted was for people to see and hear what he did, to make them understand what he felt. The violinist stared at the little girl who had two piggy tails cascading down her face, tied up in bright pink bows. What made this little girl so different from the rest? he wondered in awe. What made her listen?
The violinist closed his eyes and smiled, drawing his bow out long to slow down the melody and create a beautiful note. He continued playing, decreasing his pace, until he produced his final note, ‘c’.
He opened his eyes and smiled down at the little girl.
“Are you lost?” he questioned. The little girl frowned and nodded. The violinist could see clumps of tears starting to well up in her eyes again.
“Lets go find your mum then,” he said and bent down to open his leathery case to pack away his beloved instrument.
Perhaps tomorrow he would play at the next station over.
