Symphony

The music starts slow and heavy as he walks down the darkened hallway. What is left, he asks himself over and over, the blood dripping to the floor in time with the lowest note of the pianos keys. His scattered thoughts orchestrating a cacophony of sound easing momentarily as he thinks back to that moment. The warmth splashing against his bare chest with the rhythm of a metronome. Finding supreme, enthralling joy in the music death creates. His pain slows but the hole never fills, thus he will revel in another musical moment of his making tomorrow night. Perhaps. Gasps, grunts, slices, the wind, car horns outside…all successfully adding to his symphony. Such wondrous beauty of life that can only be seen by death. Gruesome, graphic, horrific death that shows people what they have to live for. Finding their loved ones cold and stiff to the touch, pooled blood solidifying under their feet as they stand over the bodies. But being the bringer of death only means he has already died himself. For spending that much time making music can only drain ones life force of all it was. The strings play a sorrowful wail over the blaring, victorious brass. Balance, there will always be balance. And when one source of death has been depleted it can leave the world knowing many, many more will follow in his footsteps allowing life to be appreciated.

And death dies in a crash of symbols and a whisper of flutes. Off the ledge and on to the rocks to sink where he is forgotten. But his actions will be forever felt, thriving within the paranoia and awareness of life that consumes those left behind.

Tomorrow was not meant to come but by living vicariously through the next musician.