It was that same day that I found out. I mean, everyone’s entitled to a little psychosis at that point, right? I just don’t know why it was I needed to take it out on my violin. Some kids cut, some drink, some do drugs, but me, well…I was different.
My violin was beautiful. They say string players are more attached to their instruments than other musicians, and it’s true. Mine’s name was Frankie.
Right before I did it, I ran my hand over his smooth wood, feeling the contours of the f-holes with my fingertip. I lightly plucked each of the strings – G, D, A, E. I traced the swirling spiral of the scroll. One of my tears slid down my face, running over his brown body.
When I was finished, I looked down at the pile of splinters in front of me. What was there was almost unrecognizable as an instrument, and I was breathing hard.
It seemed so right. Destroying music was much better than making it.
As I walked out of the music room, I laced my fingers over the little bump just beginning to grow in my belly.
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