Page 35 of Petals and Strings
It was tucked away in the back corner. A place Val kept extra tools, just out of view of the main path. I’d seen it during our tour and now it was the perfect spot that would keep me safe.
For now, at least.
I still had no idea what time it was, but from the stars dotting the sky and deep darkness surrounding the glass, it was late.
The glass was wet against my back, my shirt clinging to my skin as I settled against it, bracing myself as I settled down on the concrete.
In this corner, the scent of soil was stronger. The earthy smell a reminder of the version of myself I found just days ago under the heat of the sun and the exertion of tugging weeds.
The pack wasn’t mine. They were someone else’s.
I was broken, deserved to be here.
I’d been abused and used. It wasn’t my fault.
My family was awful.
Each new thought settled in my chest, reminding me of who I was now. Who I’d been and what was taken. I couldn’t lose it to these meds.
I wouldn’t.
With a sigh, I settled the violin against my chin and shoulder. My eyes drifted closed as the first notes started. This one wasn’t the same haunting melody, it was a slow, beautiful build. The notes blending together into a sweet serenade that echoed in the room, making it sound ethereal.
The hope it incited in me rose to the surface. It spoke of my inner strength, reminding me I could do this. I could fight back the demons, face the trauma those alphas caused, and find a way to live with it.
My first song bled into a second, this one slower, more like a lullaby. The notes were not quite somber, but they were low and soothing, a promise to myself.
Someone stirred nearby. My bow faltered as I looked around. My eyes caught on the glass, the reflection showing Ansel sitting against the glass nearby. I wasn’t sure if he was here before I started, but his hands were drifting over the page of a sketchbook, completely focused on his task.
Knowing it was him and he was functioning as well had me picking my song back up.
Honestly, I was grateful I wasn’t alone. I’d endured enough of that over the years to last a lifetime.
I continued on until my head ached and my fingers demanded a break. The final song came to a close, the last notes lingering in the air before I opened my eyes again.
They always drifted closed as I played, the music washing over me and pulling me to a space that felt like it was between worlds. Where only the music and I existed.
There was no pain, no trauma. No long nights in dark, cold cells. No twisted doctors and medication that took away what little remnants of myself remained.
This was my true therapy.
As I tucked the violin back in its case, the snug interior holding it safely in place, I took stock of myself again.
Playing had dulled some of the ache from my arm. My head hurt but that seemed to be the worst of it. No dizziness anymore.
I started to move when a paper caught my eye. It had the eggshell parchment color of a sketchbook and I knew right away this was what Ansel had been working on.
This wasn’t just something small. It was significant. Sketches were something personal, most artists like Ansel would keep them from others’ eyes, holding it close to their chest.
My eyes widened at the intricate charcoal sketch on the page.
It was me.
I looked… different, in his eyes. My hair was long, the waves looked healthy now, even in black and white. My eyes wereclosed, my violin in place as I played, and petals from the flowers were raining around me along with musical notes.
I looked like a goddess. It wasn’t haunting or sad, but serene.
This was something I would cherish. He’d picked up on the meaning behind the songs, transforming them into an image that screamed every emotion I’d laid out for him.
