Anne Rice - Violin.PDF by Administrator

Author:Administrator
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

I didn’t want their help! I didn’t like the way they looked at me. Thirteen. I didn’t know what they wanted! I didn’t know what was wrong with them, to crowd around me like that, and two little children, and over there, she lay on her side, her shoulders shaking. I could hear her sobs. Her voice was lovely and soft as the pain perhaps grew less sharp, the prick of it that Rosalind had tried to stay on the car, that Mother was drunk, that my Father had forced her out, that she was drunk, that she wanted to die.

”Give it back to me!” he roared, ”give me the violin.”

Why couldn’t he take it? I didn’t know. I didn’t care.

I went on and on with the chaotic dance, the jig, my feet moving, prancing like the feet of the deaf mute Johnny Belinda in the movie, to the vibrations of the fiddle she could only feel, dancing feet, dancing hands, dancing fingers, wild, mad, Kerry rhythm, chaos. Dancing on the bedroom floor, dancing and playing and letting the bow dip to the left then bringing it down, fingers choosing their own path, bow its own time, yes, jam, jam, as they said at the picnic, let it go, jam.

Blow it Out, let it go. I played and played.

He grabbed at me, clutching me. He wasn’t strong enough to overpower me.

I backed up against the window, and wrapped my arms over the violin and the bow against my chest.

“Give it back,” he said.

“No!”

“You can’t play it. It’s the violin that’s doing it; it’s mine, it’s mine.

“Give it to me, it’s my violin!”

“I’ll crush it first!”

I crunched my arms tight against it, I didn’t want to make the bridge collapse, but he couldn’t tell how hard I held it. I must have been all elbows and huge eyes to him, holding it.

“No,” I said. “I played it, I played it that way before, I played my song, my version of it.

“You did not, you lying whore! Give me the violin now, damn you, I tell you, it’s mine! You can’t take such a thing.”

I shivered all over staring at him. He reached for me, and I shrank in the corner and tightened my grip.

“I’ll smash it!”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Why should it matter? It’s a spectral thing, is it not? It’s a ghost as you are ghost?

I want to play it again. I want… just to hold it. You can’t take it back. .

I lifted it and put it under my chin again. His hand came out and I kicked hi m again. I kicked at his legs as he tried to get away. I put the bow to the strings and played a wild cry, a long awful cry and then slowly, with eyes closed, ignoring him, holding tight to it with every finger and every fiber of my being, I played, I played soft and slow, a lullaby perhaps, for her, for me, for Roz, for my wounded Katrinka and

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