Image © Björn Rudeberg
Sometimes I wake in the night, panic tight around my neck like a cord. I press my palms tight against my ears but I can still hear it, the song you wrote for me. The song you played for her.
I furl and unfurl my fingers. Sometimes they cramp with the memory. How the rosewood felt beneath my skin. The weight of the cello as I swung it high above my head, splintering as it came crashing down upon your skull.
But I still hear the music.
I whimper as I rock backwards and forwards, my fingernails clawing at my scalp.
Please make it stop.
I didn’t think I would be able to join in with Friday Fictioneers today as my copy edits for The Gift are due but they are not here yet and once I saw the photo I couldn’t resist joining in. To read the other entries or join in with this weekly hundred word story challenge, inspired by a photo prompt, hop over to host Rochelle’s blog, here.