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Description
Shattered.

She felt like the instrument that lay in pieces at her feet, the splinters of the delicate wood scattered on the floor. The bow lay discarded in the wreckage, loose horsehairs in a spray on its end.

The taut E-string had snapped first. It sprang up, free, jumped and cut her face. The shrill, angry notes she had been playing, trying to use the music to let it out, were too much strain for it. She tore the notes out of the deeper strings instead, but even that wasn’t enough to purge herself of the agony she felt. Her normally deft fingers had grabbed the neck of the thing, choking it the way she was choking with rage. The bow clattered to the floor as she raised the violin to her side, slammed it against the wall. The discordant thrum was accompanied by a satisfying crack. Once she started the destruction, there was nothing to it but to finish it. The first blow felt so good. Even the thought of the cost of the thing was sweet release. It was no antique, certainly not a Strad, but it was more money than she made in a week. So what. He had also broken something that had taken so long to build. So she went ahead and smashed the violin. She let her anger, her rage, out in a different kind of music.

Destruction.

It wasn’t the sweet music of bow across tight strings, but that hadn’t helped. It was a cacophony of freed strings and hollow thunks against the wall. Some time between beginning and ending, her voice joined the din. The choking feeling gradually lessened as the violin was demolished.

Screams of rage and frustration faded into soft cries as she slid to the floor amid the wreckage. Gradually, they subsided altogether. Glassy eyes stared blankly at the remains of the violin. She sat there, unaffected by the passage of time.

She couldn’t put it back together, but she could buy a new one. She couldn’t buy a new self, though. She made a slow survey of the pieces. The cut on her face from the snapped string stung. That was nothing compared to the painful numbness that had replaced her fury. She laughed hollowly at the mess she’d made. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Her poor violin would be testament to that.

She wondered if she would ever be able to put the pieces of herself back together.

In time, she thought defiantly. In time, she would put them back together better than ever.

But first, she was going to need a new violin.

Sometimes, she thought, a little destruction was needed to build something new.

Description
Shattered.

She felt like the instrument that lay in pieces at her feet, the splinters of the delicate wood scattered on the floor. The bow lay discarded in the wreckage, loose horsehairs in a spray on its end.

The taut E-string had snapped first. It sprang up, free, jumped and cut her face. The shrill, angry notes she had been playing, trying to use the music to let it out, were too much strain for it. She tore the notes out of the deeper strings instead, but even that wasn’t enough to purge herself of the agony she felt. Her normally deft fingers had grabbed the neck of the thing, choking it the way she was choking with rage. The bow clattered to the floor as she raised the violin to her side, slammed it against the wall. The discordant thrum was accompanied by a satisfying crack. Once she started the destruction, there was nothing to it but to finish it. The first blow felt so good. Even the thought of the cost of the thing was sweet release. It was no antique, certainly not a Strad, but it was more money than she made in a week. So what. He had also broken something that had taken so long to build. So she went ahead and smashed the violin. She let her anger, her rage, out in a different kind of music.

Destruction.

It wasn’t the sweet music of bow across tight strings, but that hadn’t helped. It was a cacophony of freed strings and hollow thunks against the wall. Some time between beginning and ending, her voice joined the din. The choking feeling gradually lessened as the violin was demolished.

Screams of rage and frustration faded into soft cries as she slid to the floor amid the wreckage. Gradually, they subsided altogether. Glassy eyes stared blankly at the remains of the violin. She sat there, unaffected by the passage of time.

She couldn’t put it back together, but she could buy a new one. She couldn’t buy a new self, though. She made a slow survey of the pieces. The cut on her face from the snapped string stung. That was nothing compared to the painful numbness that had replaced her fury. She laughed hollowly at the mess she’d made. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Her poor violin would be testament to that.

She wondered if she would ever be able to put the pieces of herself back together.

In time, she thought defiantly. In time, she would put them back together better than ever.

But first, she was going to need a new violin.

Sometimes, she thought, a little destruction was needed to build something new.