Above is the photo prompt from last week’s reveal; below is my story that goes with it. Enjoy!
Mandatory words: Cork, Violin, Seesaw, Toilet Paper, Composer
Henry sensed the girl was there. Her presence filled the room like the brilliant radiance of a young bride eager to meet her groom, yet all he could see were rays of pink and orange streaking in through the center glass.
Standing near the window, she turned to face the setting sun and closed her eyes. The silence was thick, the air musty, and the room still. She felt his love for her, though he had not yet recognized love as the emotion that burdened his heart.
The music played.
He focused in on the dark, beautiful melody echoing around him, though it sounded faint like it was resonating from another time. She was playing for him. Henry pictured Julia Belrose, sitting near the window, the summer sun illuminating the golden highlights in her upswept hair. The ivory bow gliding softly over the mahogany violin, Julia poured out her despair through the velvety tones and musical stories penned by her most admired composer, Pierre Rode.
Henry had fallen in love with her story while researching a historic piece for the centennial edition of The Post. Her image was captivating as she looked right at him through the computer screen: her striking emerald eyes were sweet and calm, yet sorrow permeated through her pensive expression.
She had grown up an only child, and was accomplished in a variety of arts by the time she was seven years old. Her greatest love was violin. It had become her refuge after the death of her mother, an elementary-school teacher who adored and invested in her daughter’s dream of attending Julliard. Left to live with her over-protective, alcoholic father, Julia Belrose was forced to spend her days inside her room, dreaming. Her father believed Julia’s love and talent for music to be rubbish; he referred to her sheet music as nothing but “indecipherable foreign languages on toilet paper” and had burned her entire collection of Pierre Rode Concertos in one of his drunken, seesaw stupors—an extreme of animated anger equally matched with deep remorse. The collection had been a gift from her mother after Julia declared her journey toward Julliard.
On a frigid winter night in December, 1942, Julia’s father discovered his daughter dead. A single wine glass sat in the middle of her desk, a tiny poo of red wine mixed in a white, powdery substance remained at the bottom. The wine bottle’s cork lay sideways upon a sheet of paper:
Like a beautifully complex wine trapped inside a bottle waiting to breathe, waiting for the moment to pour upon the world and surprise the senses of those who want to experience, so am I trapped inside this world with my broken heart. I want to breathe again.
Henry moved toward the window, trying to connect whence the source of music flowed. Julia blew a kiss upon his cheek. A cool, slight breeze landed warm against his face and for the first time Henry realized, he was in love with her.
Word count: 499