Broken Chord

It was the afternoon and it was raining.

The wind shook the trees as the rain poured furiously from the dark, stormy clouds. Phillipa shivered as she ran home, frustration filling her lungs. Quickly, she opened the door and a wave of warm air hit her. Thankful for the warmth, she sat down and took off her slick rubber boots.. Then-quietly-she peeked into the living room and was relieved to find no one sitting there.

Phillipa ran up the steps to her room and shut the door quickly. She checked the windows, making sure that they were closed.

She made sure to draw the curtains.

When she was sure no one would be watching, she walked to her closet and took out a large, old cello.

Dragging a chair to the middle of the room, she sat down, cello at her side. On her lap lay a book. Eagerly, she flipped through it, found what she wanted and placed it on the table in front of her. Then, she picked up her cello and played.

Immediately, the tense expression on Phillipa's face melted away into joy as the music took hold of her. It blinded her senses to reality and allowed her to bask in the warmth and comfort that the music allowed her to have. The music was the only good thing about this day, the only good thing about her life. The music allowed her to be free for a moment; from the cage her father had built up around her, a cage of anger, punishment and expectations. She was lost in an endless dream, a dream so good, so--Phillipa's bow stopped abruptly as the door creaked open.

The lone lightbulb outside the door cast a hellish glow on the man in the doorway, his shadow long, savage, a monster. He was tall, the man, lean but muscular. His chin was coated in dark stubble. His dark eyes were dull, a probable result of the drinking he had been doing while his daughter was in school.

"Hello Phillipa," the man cast a wry, angry grin.

"D-d-daddy," Phillipa answered, voice shaking.

"What did I say you were supposed to do today?" he whispered in a terrifyingly calm voice.

"I did what you asked daddy-I-I did what you asked!" Phillipa said, quickly getting up and running to the other side of the room.

He advanced towards her, every step causing Phillipa to cower even more. "Did you really? Then why do I see that damn cello instead of your books and pens?" he stood in front of her, his shadow blocking out the little liberating light left in the room.

"I did daddy, while you were gone, I-I went to the l-l-library and studied."

"Are you lying to me?"

"No daddy I'm not!"

"Did you just yell at me, you God forsaken child?!?"

"N-n-no."

"You're getting mighty cheeky, aren't you?" he slurred, eerily calm all of a sudden. "You think you can talk to me anyway you like, huh?" Her father set his gaze on the cello, which was sitting peacefully amongst the violent dispute going on around it.

Phillipa's face went from fear to terror. "Please- not that," she croaked, desperately.

Her father crouched down, face close to her's. Phillipa squeezed her eyes shut, afraid of what he was going to do. She cringed as she caught a whiff of his breath, heavy with the scent of alcohol.

"You do realize nothing you do will stop me, don't you? You will always be mine and you WILL do what I tell you to do. You should remember that no one loves you that you-no-you're nothing to me; you're just some kid I have to take care of. So don't go around thinking I'll give you hugs and show you-" he paused and then muttered in a disgusted voice, "mercy?"

Phillipa glanced at her father and let out a half-choked sob,"I remind you of Nana, don't I Daddy," Phillipa whispered.

As soon as the words left her mouth, he went rigid, frozen, as if a snake was crawling up his leg.

"Don't-"

"EVER-"

"Mention that woman's name."

Phillipa looked at him boldly, "why do you hate Nana, daddy?"

Her father's fierce expression disintegrated into pain, his jaw tensed.

His voice shook as he spoke, "That woman did things-beat me-left me for dead," he looked at her with cold fear in his eyes, "how could I NOT hate her."

He gave her gentle glance, one of the few she had received in her life, "she played the cello too you know."

They stood there, feeling connected for the first time in years.

Phillipa took a breath "then...um..c-could you stop beating me?"

Suddenly, he looked up at her as if he had woken from a trance, eyes flashing with rage. Phillpa cried out in pain as he grabbed her hair and yanked her to her feet.

"Stop!" she screamed, tears streaming down her face. As soon as she spoke, her blood went cold.

Her father stood over her, the darkness of his shadow enveloping her in a sea of violence and fear.

"What-" he stared at her, the muscles in his jaw tensing again, "did you say?"

"S-s-stop," she whispered " please."

He gave her a small smile, Phillipa's fears subsided for a moment, hope blossoming inside her.

"No."

Phillipa's pine green eyes widened as he raised his arm and his hand came crashing into her face; her head snapped back from the impact and she fell onto the floor.

He laughed. "You think I'll stop when YOU say stop?" He grinned as Phillipa dragged herself to the wall, a small trickle of crimson blood dripping down from her nose. Phillipa went rigid as he walked towards the cello. "Let's get rid of your cause to revolt, shall we?" he smiled, his drunk eyes filling with dark pleasure. Phillipa grabbed his heel.

"No, please! I-," before she could say more, her father's heel smashed into her mouth. Her head hit the floor, pungent blood beginning to pool inside her mouth. She lay there and watched; she was too afraid to look, but it pained her to look away.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she heard the loud creak his gait had on the floor, but only when the noise stopped, did she open her eyes.

Her father bent down and picked up the cello by the neck as if he were holding a baseball bat.

He walked to the opposite end of the room.

Phillipa nearly cried out, but the cry died in her throat as her father swung the cello-no, her cello- towards the wall. The cello cracked and shattered.

"Ha!" her father laughed, "homerun!" He dropped the neck of the cello onto the floor and walked out the door, shutting it behind him, leaving Phillipa in the dark. After a few seconds, she dragged herself towards the shards of wood, stopping right before the door where some strings of the cello lay. She tentatively picked them up- one by one, as if trying to remember a memory with only pieces of it.

She forced herself into a sitting position and sat against the door.

She wrapped the strings around her hand, tears slowly slipping down her cheeks as she felt the distant feel of the thin pieces of wire on her skin. She pressed them harder against her hand, hoping to feel the joy they had once given her but she felt nothing- she felt absolutely empty.

She dropped the wires and her hands rested limply at her sides. Slowly her tears died away and she sat in unoccupied, meaningless, silence.