She was a narcissist in every sense of the word
always hiding in dark shadows of the room with her instrument to prove she didn't need validation from anyone else
She had, in fact, never hugged another
On weekdays, during class, she would emerge with her bow and wait for their pizzicato
to surpass
to embarrass
and she would strike fiercely
drowning them out by her raw talent and ruthlessness
Viola had an inherent inability to withdraw
to fancy herself the connoisseur
lying dormant and then marveling at what she had contributed
But it was all beginning to be just noise
a cheap vibrato ominously indicative of her imminent demise
And skulking behind her
lurking in her silhouette
was the harpist who was always sharp with her hands
And it was she who stole it
Viola stepped into the spotlight
smirking smugly
but her bow was nowhere to be found
Creeping, creeping stealthily
her humble colleague took the bow
freshly tightened
and embraced Viola from behind
One slit to the throat
the silent dagger
And this
the only hug she ever knew would be her last
deservedly so
Things were askew
The final visage would be a counterfeit reflection
that not even she could play her way out of
Exit stage left!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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