The sun began to sink low in the sky
and Arthur still sat in the bedroom browsing through the cracked leather photo
album. He sat in silence, making no real
sound except his slow, rhythmic breathing as he carefully looked at picture
after picture. His gaze hovered over
each old photograph for a few minutes, occasionally running his fingers across
each photograph. He set the album
gingerly on a chair, and reached for his instrument. Sad, yet beautiful, the notes echoed through
the room. Outside, Mrs. Washington
walked down the street, and heard the music.
She smiled and began walking up the steps to the house, reaching her
hand out towards the worn, brass doorknob.
She hesitated and then stopped completely. Her aged face frowned, the wrinkles on her
dark skin becoming more pronounced as she heard the music clearly from the
house. She heard the sobs in between the
violin music, and turned back down the steps towards the sidewalk, giving the
house one last forlorn glance before walking further down the street. Inside the house, Arthur stopped playing,
taking the rosin and rubbing it aggressively across the bow, before setting in
on top of the photo album. Underneath it,
a yellowed photograph showed the same boy with the hawkish nose and the short
chin, holding up a birthday cake with a wide grin. A tight, loopy handwriting in the corner of
the photograph read “Arthur, age 10.”
Outside, the wind began to pick up erratically, and a light rain began
to fall.
It was after midnight when the loud
droning of the alarms began to sound around the city. The light rain had given way to a torrent,
the sky roared and flashed as the wind began to howl through the
buildings. Inside the tenement
buildings, the panicked residents began to hole up in the bathrooms and
basements, listening to half-used radios as weather reports poured in. “Tornado,” was what the robotic, buzzing
voice said. The residents stayed quiet,
families huddled together. The undesired
criminals braved the adverse weather, foolishly seeking material wealth in the treacherous
weather. The storm ripped its way
through the city, towards the tenements of the back corner.
Arthur woke to the house heaving
and shaking in the wind. He tried
desperately to turn on a light, but there was no power. The distinct lack of light caused him to
fumble in the dark, searching for any source of light. He crashed through the hallway, causing the
feral cat to yowl and run out of its hiding place in a discarded cardboard
box. He stumbled into the kitchen, and
grabbed the box of matches left sitting on the counter from his meager
dinner. He struck one, holding it aloft,
looking for something to light with it, before finding an old candle on top of
the refrigerator. He lit it, and began
to run back towards the bedroom. The
house shook violently in the heavy wind; boards creaked and shingles began to
fly off the roof in droves. Arthur
grabbed the violin case and took off towards the back of the house. He stopped, staring at the door in front of
him; the only thing separating him from the outside, the splintered, old wood
with the same brass doorknob as in the front door but lacking the wear. Arthur began breathing heavier than he
already was: the frantic gasp of breath left him dizzy and disoriented, faintly
hearing the roar of the wind as it tore through the upstairs. The ancient wood, ill kept, began to splinter
at the relentless onslaught. It started
in his sanctuary, as the last unbroken pane of glass buckled inward and left
shards of glass streaming through the small room. The sound of splintering wood echoed through
the house, followed by the crash of debris.
Outside, the roof buckled and tore off the rest of the house. It crashed against the neighboring building,
raining a torrent of debris down on the side alleyway. Arthur stood, paralyzed, staring at the door,
as the entire house fell down on top of him.
Mrs. Washington stood with her
grandson staring at the remains of the large house. The police had strung caution tape across the
lot, yet minimal removal had occurred.
There were no intact items left, merely the pile of debris; anything of
value had been removed by the residents of the tenements. Mrs. Washington bent over and pulled a faded
scrap of a photograph from in front of her.
She studied it before tossing it away realizing that the image was
impossible to see. Her Grandson bent
under the tape, and started stirring a pile of dust with his hand: “Grandma, what
happened to the man that lived here?”
Mrs. Washington sighed, surveying
the debris-strewn lot, before calmly stating, “I don’t know, baby.”
“I heard him play his music. I liked it.”
The elderly woman sat on the
remains of a wooden box, her face creasing intensely as tears grew in the
corner of her eyes. She hastily wiped
them away before turning to the boy, still playing in the dust: “Me too. The
music was so beautiful.”
“How come he didn’t come outside?
I didn’t meet him.”
“He was scared. You see, his
parents died when he was young, and he was too scared to go outside. He just sat in his house and played his
music.”
“His parents died? Like Mommy and
Daddy, Grandma?”
“Yeah, baby. Just like them.”
“I wish I woulda met him. There’s nothing scary out here.” The boy
looked back at Mrs. Washington, and she motioned him back to the building next
door. As he dropped the pile of dust
back on the ground, he examined the small, rectangular object half-buried in
it. It was the rosin. He hastily put the treasure in his pocket
before hurrying back to where his grandmother was waiting for him.
That night, anyone who could
avoid the usually cacophony of noise from the city, more erratic and deafening
that usual due to the extra commotion from the massive storm, would not hear
the usual violin music slowly drifting through.
There was no distinct, mournful music.
Mrs. Washington sat next to her window, and with a distinct sense of
yearning, looked out over the city as her grandson slept in the cot next to
her. She didn’t notice the shadows
moving strangely along the wall of the alley below her. A dumpster sat, slightly removed from the
back wall of the alley. The streetlight
showed a man’s shadow cast across the concrete wall of the building. Arthur sat behind the dumpster, battered and
covered in dried blood and dirt of decades of home neglect. He cradled his head in his arms, humming
quietly. He raised the tone, louder, yet
unheard, masked by the noise of the city around him. Abruptly, he raised his arms, aloft, and
struck an imaginary bow across an imaginary violin.
