Those Damned Violins
I was conquering my own little world
to the sounds of Beethoven’s Ninth
when she entered the room and
sat in the large leather sofa.
“Want to listen to music with daddy?”
She nodded somewhat dumbly
while tugging at the bottom of her dress
—a little speck of peanut butter on it—
intent on making it larger.
“What are you listening to?”
“Well, if you’d concentrate for a bit, I’ll tell you.”
She looked up at me, her hands slowly
dropping the stained hem of her dress.
I put on the first movement.
“Sounds like they’re tuning their instruments.” She belts.
“Indeed it does. They’re getting ready.”
“For what?” she asks, her eyes
wandering toward the buttery
mess on her dress.
“For the man-demon.”
Her eyes snap to mine,
the dress forgotten.
“Man-demon? What’s that?”
“Sewer of sorrows,” I tell her.
“Malevolence. A bringer of pain,
a harvester of misery.”
The music is at its darkest now.
I close my eyes and lift my arms,
clawing my fingers and turning toward her.
I start growling softly as the horns
do their horrific back and forth, and
the violins scratching my brain
and I raise my voice to a roar,
my arms above my head.
“I am the Man-Demon!”
I approach her, mouth wide open,
tongue thrashing to the sound of the tympani.
She screamed and jumped
out of the chair,
running in to the living room.
“Mommy! Daddy is a demon!”
I ran after her, howl-laughing,
arms waving
until she jumped—crying—
into my wife’s arms.
She was actually crying.
My wife was displeased.
She really felt it. Both of them did—
didn’t shy away from it but grasped
the feeling until their stomachs twisted
and their eyes bled.
And I hear nothing but those damned violins.
I would kill to feel something.
