The Cellist

The song stopped, and I opened my eyes.

The first thing I saw was the dusty cello case in the corner by the door. I turned away immediately and rubbed my right arm. I then took up my CD cases scattered on my bed and looked at my selections.

It had been 8 months since the incident, 8 months since I last touched my beloved instrument, 8 months since I was forced into this exile.

The door creaked open. “Anne, supper’s ready. Come, eat something.”

I exhaled impatiently as I glance over the albums I had. “No. I’m not hungry. Leave me alone.”

Tentative footsteps made their way inside my room. “But Anne…”

Without turning towards the door, I kept silent and gripped my CDs tight in my left arm. I heard one step, then another, and another. Then, a little sigh. There was a swish on the floor, and soon, the footsteps receded and the door was gently closed.

Relieved, I picked up a Bach album and switched it out with the one in my player. I pressed Play, and music started playing in my ears, the familiar tones of Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major. I drowned myself in the sound, and it didn’t matter anymore if I lost my bowing hand 8 months ago. All that matters was the music. That was all I needed anyway.

The song played on, and I closed my eyes.

–

For Julia J.

–
Image source: deviantart.com/music-instruments/art/The-Cello-move-by-LinogeNL-31731224
First written January 24, 2018.
#115