141 - Cadence - wonderfinch - Original
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tamingthemuseTitle: Cadence
Fandom: N/A (Original)
Prompt: 141-- Cadence
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1 529
Summary: Ugh, I fail at summaries.
Though I do apologise in advance for this story. In its original form, it was something like 5 000 words, with no end in sight, so I did a tonne of editing so it might be presented in a more manageable form-- and this was perhaps to the story's detriment.
He’d been going on about it for weeks and weeks—“This,” he had said, “is going to be my greatest work—it shall be, as a lesser mind would say, ‘hella bomb.’ Maybe with an expletive or three thrown in for emphasis. The violin is utterly gorgeous, the flutes sublime, and the brass....” He’d trail off for a moment, lost in rapture or reverie, before he shook his head and whispered again, “And the brass…” before he would waltz off down the hall. We had this conversation fifty, perhaps a hundred times, and it always ended with the waltz, and then he would trip on the cat as he turned the corner and then I’d hear a thump and a few bangs as he tumbled down the stairs. “I’m okay!” he’d yell, and then I wouldn’t hear from him for another five hours and ten minutes (exactly), when he’d come upstairs with some pages of music and say, “This is going to be my greatest work—it shall be, as you would say, ‘hella bomb.’”
And every time, I nodded and smiled and wondered what he was still doing in this house with me, and whether he’d finally leave after he’d finished this symphony (as opposed to the ten others after which he could have, should have, left).
It occurred to me every morning that his mom had been totally right when she’d first met me.
“What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing with a parasite like that?” she’d spat, looking at me like I was so much dog shit on her carpet. “She doesn’t even deserve to hear your music, dear, let alone your voice—and for her to have you, why, it’s a violation of the very laws of nature! Look at her! She’s not even enough brain to comprehend that I’m insulting her.”
To be fair, I was standing there silently. I’d understood what she’d said, obviously, and even if I hadn’t, an idiot could have guessed just from her tone that she thought I was less than worthless. But there wasn’t anything I could have said to her, since I myself spent a great deal of time wondering why he loved me.
He’d sneaked a glance at me, and it only took him an instant to see that I wasn’t going to fight with his mother. And then he’d let out a little sigh, and told her, “Mother, Arianne has an English degree, the same as you do.”
“But I doubt hers is from Harvar—“
“Actually, it is. I told you that we met in class, and I assumed you would have—“
“She’s still a plebeian, dear. You should find someone who can spell ‘ignorance’ without giving herself an aneurysm.”
And with that, she had slammed the door in our faces.
“Don’t worry,” he’d said, taking my hand in his and squeezing it reassuringly. “She’s just jealous.”
As though that clarified anything. And it didn’t change the fact that I had asked myself the same questions every morning back then, and I asked myself those same questions every five hours and ten minutes, after he waltzed down the hall but before he hit the floor.
------
The conversation finally changed about a month after we had first started having it. I was dozing upstairs by the picture window in the guest room, my laptop on the window seat and my face pressed up against the glass, and he came up thirty minutes late to announce, more grandly than usual, “This is going to be my greatest work—it shall be, as you would say, ‘hella bomb.’”
But after he’d whispered about the brass, he snapped out of his musical dream world and said, “And I shall call it ‘Cadence,’ and it will be my cadence, and….”
And sounding suspiciously like the blue fish out of Finding Nemo, he waltzed off down the hall, forgot about the corner entirely, and ran straight into the wall.
And it would be a lie to deny that I spent a good ten minutes laughing at him. But I didn’t even think of smiling until I’d ran down the hall, checked him all over for bruises, and made sure he could still spell “ignorance” without giving himself an aneurysm.
After that incident, though, I didn’t see him for a whole twelve hours. I’d gotten so used to his routine that I had practically scheduled my day around his conversations—write 1 000 words, edit, listen to him natter on about his new symphony, head downstairs five minutes after he took his tumble down the stairs to make sure he was still alive or at least conscious, and then head back upstairs to start all over—so it was a bit distracting to have him not come up. I finally got so anxious that I went into his study, even though he had requested months ago that I should never disturb him while he was in the study, and found him standing on the desk, playing a violin. Most of the other instruments were strewn about the floor, half-falling out of their cases, and the first question out of my mouth was, “Did you try to get the contrabass up on the desk?”
“Of course not,” he said, hopping down from his perch and closing the door behind me. “The contrabass chair is over in the north corner.”
I glanced around, trying to figure out which corner was north, before I realized the only other chair in the room was, in fact, shaped like a contrabass. “Oh. What have you been doing, any—“
“I was playing all the parts,” he answered, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. Perhaps, to him, it was. “I finished late last night, but I wanted it to sound perfect before I played it for you.”
“I’m sure it’s perfect,” I told him with a smile, and with that he climbed back up on the desk and started playing again just as I left. The sound of his violin followed me up the stairs, and I heard it echoed by trumpets, xylophones, oboes, and countless other instruments as the day faded into the night. I fell asleep to the sound of his symphony, and I was roused, oddly enough, by the silence of his pausing. I lay there, eyes wide open, for ten or so minutes, before he came upstairs and crawled into bed with me, and fell asleep before I could so much as say good-night. With a fond smile, I kissed him on the cheek and lay back against the pillows until my eyes drifted shut.
That morning, I woke to the nearly-unfamiliar situation of being able to wake up with him. I revelled in the sensation for a moment, watching the sun stream in through the windows, before he rolled over, and, kissing me on the cheek, said, “It’s finally done.”
I smiled back at him. “And I’m sure it’s great.”
Laughing, he said, “It’s not just ‘great’—it’s brilliant. Luminous. Magnificent. Hella fucking bomb.”
And the morning after that, I woke to an empty bed. I wondered idly where he might be for a few minutes, but, after a quick search of the house yielded no results (and certainly no sign of him), I shrugged, and crawled back into bed, hoping he’d be back soon.
I didn’t wake up again until the sun was just about to set, and then I only woke to the sound of the front door closing quietly. My face contorted into a tiny frown, I ventured downstairs to see who had just come. The house was as empty as it had been that morning, though, and I walked into his study to see all the instruments crushed and broken, lying in a heap on the floor around the contrabass chair. With that one exception, the room was perfectly clean, and his desk was clean for the first time since we’d purchased it. Clean, that is, save a small pile of papers or something similar in its centre. I crossed to the desk, quickly, and picked up the sheaf of papers. On top of them was an audio CD, and on top of that was a sticky note. “Cadence,” it read, “is a note, chord, or series of notes or chords which signifies the end of a piece of music. And this is mine.”
My frown deepened, and I put the CD into the player on one of the shelves. After I pressed play, the first thing I heard was a whispered, “I’m sorry,” before the symphony began in earnest, sounding as though it had been played in reverse.
Again, my frown deepened, and I pursed my lips a little harder, and the furrow between my brows grew. What was this supposed to mean? Was he leaving me? Had he killed himself? What was happening?
I pondered for a few more moments, growing more worried all the time as the minutes passed and he failed to appear, or to provide a proper explanation, but I eventually sighed and shrugged.
It wasn’t as though I deserved to have him.
Fandom: N/A (Original)
Prompt: 141-- Cadence
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1 529
Summary: Ugh, I fail at summaries.
Though I do apologise in advance for this story. In its original form, it was something like 5 000 words, with no end in sight, so I did a tonne of editing so it might be presented in a more manageable form-- and this was perhaps to the story's detriment.
He’d been going on about it for weeks and weeks—“This,” he had said, “is going to be my greatest work—it shall be, as a lesser mind would say, ‘hella bomb.’ Maybe with an expletive or three thrown in for emphasis. The violin is utterly gorgeous, the flutes sublime, and the brass....” He’d trail off for a moment, lost in rapture or reverie, before he shook his head and whispered again, “And the brass…” before he would waltz off down the hall. We had this conversation fifty, perhaps a hundred times, and it always ended with the waltz, and then he would trip on the cat as he turned the corner and then I’d hear a thump and a few bangs as he tumbled down the stairs. “I’m okay!” he’d yell, and then I wouldn’t hear from him for another five hours and ten minutes (exactly), when he’d come upstairs with some pages of music and say, “This is going to be my greatest work—it shall be, as you would say, ‘hella bomb.’”
And every time, I nodded and smiled and wondered what he was still doing in this house with me, and whether he’d finally leave after he’d finished this symphony (as opposed to the ten others after which he could have, should have, left).
It occurred to me every morning that his mom had been totally right when she’d first met me.
“What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing with a parasite like that?” she’d spat, looking at me like I was so much dog shit on her carpet. “She doesn’t even deserve to hear your music, dear, let alone your voice—and for her to have you, why, it’s a violation of the very laws of nature! Look at her! She’s not even enough brain to comprehend that I’m insulting her.”
To be fair, I was standing there silently. I’d understood what she’d said, obviously, and even if I hadn’t, an idiot could have guessed just from her tone that she thought I was less than worthless. But there wasn’t anything I could have said to her, since I myself spent a great deal of time wondering why he loved me.
He’d sneaked a glance at me, and it only took him an instant to see that I wasn’t going to fight with his mother. And then he’d let out a little sigh, and told her, “Mother, Arianne has an English degree, the same as you do.”
“But I doubt hers is from Harvar—“
“Actually, it is. I told you that we met in class, and I assumed you would have—“
“She’s still a plebeian, dear. You should find someone who can spell ‘ignorance’ without giving herself an aneurysm.”
And with that, she had slammed the door in our faces.
“Don’t worry,” he’d said, taking my hand in his and squeezing it reassuringly. “She’s just jealous.”
As though that clarified anything. And it didn’t change the fact that I had asked myself the same questions every morning back then, and I asked myself those same questions every five hours and ten minutes, after he waltzed down the hall but before he hit the floor.
------
The conversation finally changed about a month after we had first started having it. I was dozing upstairs by the picture window in the guest room, my laptop on the window seat and my face pressed up against the glass, and he came up thirty minutes late to announce, more grandly than usual, “This is going to be my greatest work—it shall be, as you would say, ‘hella bomb.’”
But after he’d whispered about the brass, he snapped out of his musical dream world and said, “And I shall call it ‘Cadence,’ and it will be my cadence, and….”
And sounding suspiciously like the blue fish out of Finding Nemo, he waltzed off down the hall, forgot about the corner entirely, and ran straight into the wall.
And it would be a lie to deny that I spent a good ten minutes laughing at him. But I didn’t even think of smiling until I’d ran down the hall, checked him all over for bruises, and made sure he could still spell “ignorance” without giving himself an aneurysm.
After that incident, though, I didn’t see him for a whole twelve hours. I’d gotten so used to his routine that I had practically scheduled my day around his conversations—write 1 000 words, edit, listen to him natter on about his new symphony, head downstairs five minutes after he took his tumble down the stairs to make sure he was still alive or at least conscious, and then head back upstairs to start all over—so it was a bit distracting to have him not come up. I finally got so anxious that I went into his study, even though he had requested months ago that I should never disturb him while he was in the study, and found him standing on the desk, playing a violin. Most of the other instruments were strewn about the floor, half-falling out of their cases, and the first question out of my mouth was, “Did you try to get the contrabass up on the desk?”
“Of course not,” he said, hopping down from his perch and closing the door behind me. “The contrabass chair is over in the north corner.”
I glanced around, trying to figure out which corner was north, before I realized the only other chair in the room was, in fact, shaped like a contrabass. “Oh. What have you been doing, any—“
“I was playing all the parts,” he answered, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. Perhaps, to him, it was. “I finished late last night, but I wanted it to sound perfect before I played it for you.”
“I’m sure it’s perfect,” I told him with a smile, and with that he climbed back up on the desk and started playing again just as I left. The sound of his violin followed me up the stairs, and I heard it echoed by trumpets, xylophones, oboes, and countless other instruments as the day faded into the night. I fell asleep to the sound of his symphony, and I was roused, oddly enough, by the silence of his pausing. I lay there, eyes wide open, for ten or so minutes, before he came upstairs and crawled into bed with me, and fell asleep before I could so much as say good-night. With a fond smile, I kissed him on the cheek and lay back against the pillows until my eyes drifted shut.
That morning, I woke to the nearly-unfamiliar situation of being able to wake up with him. I revelled in the sensation for a moment, watching the sun stream in through the windows, before he rolled over, and, kissing me on the cheek, said, “It’s finally done.”
I smiled back at him. “And I’m sure it’s great.”
Laughing, he said, “It’s not just ‘great’—it’s brilliant. Luminous. Magnificent. Hella fucking bomb.”
And the morning after that, I woke to an empty bed. I wondered idly where he might be for a few minutes, but, after a quick search of the house yielded no results (and certainly no sign of him), I shrugged, and crawled back into bed, hoping he’d be back soon.
I didn’t wake up again until the sun was just about to set, and then I only woke to the sound of the front door closing quietly. My face contorted into a tiny frown, I ventured downstairs to see who had just come. The house was as empty as it had been that morning, though, and I walked into his study to see all the instruments crushed and broken, lying in a heap on the floor around the contrabass chair. With that one exception, the room was perfectly clean, and his desk was clean for the first time since we’d purchased it. Clean, that is, save a small pile of papers or something similar in its centre. I crossed to the desk, quickly, and picked up the sheaf of papers. On top of them was an audio CD, and on top of that was a sticky note. “Cadence,” it read, “is a note, chord, or series of notes or chords which signifies the end of a piece of music. And this is mine.”
My frown deepened, and I put the CD into the player on one of the shelves. After I pressed play, the first thing I heard was a whispered, “I’m sorry,” before the symphony began in earnest, sounding as though it had been played in reverse.
Again, my frown deepened, and I pursed my lips a little harder, and the furrow between my brows grew. What was this supposed to mean? Was he leaving me? Had he killed himself? What was happening?
I pondered for a few more moments, growing more worried all the time as the minutes passed and he failed to appear, or to provide a proper explanation, but I eventually sighed and shrugged.
It wasn’t as though I deserved to have him.
