Dollars

Eventually, my tutor spoke to my father. He was afraid of my passion, afraid because I stopped eating, drinking, living. I only existed to master the cello in every way possible.

However, my father understood who I was, and instead of scolding me, he encouraged me.

I became worse.

Origami started much the same. One night, I picked up a piece of my brother’s homework left on the kitchen table. His assignment was to make a simple crane for a class project.

It took me all night, but I mastered the entire exercise booklet, leaving my origami creations of cranes and boats and butterflies outside my brother’s bedroom, so he woke up in a sea of folded colour.

After that, if I wasn’t playing the cello, I was creasing paper into anything I could imagine. I no longer needed guidelines and instructions. I was the instructions.

But then, I fucked up.

My childhood disappeared.

And my new life obsession was tracking down those who stole from me and steal from them in return. I’d hunt every person who’d ever put a roadblock in my path and kill them.

And I wouldn’t stop until I was the biggest, baddest, most untouchable one of them all.

The entire time my mind ran backward over good and evil, my fingers flew. Music poured. Violence was shared. Love was created. I didn’t play as audiences expected. I didn’t keep calm and close my eyes to visualize the notes better.

I let loose.

My body became quavers; my arms double clefts. I lost myself to the dark melody as I maimed and wounded it, changing and designing.

Sweat glistened over my naked chest; my fingers became damp as I struggled to race through a crescendo that made me rock fucking hard and almost at the verge of burning tears.

And then a flutter of motion wrenched my head up.

Pimlico hovered just over the threshold of my room.

Her mouth hung wide, her hands balled. She wore the white robe I’d given her when I’d pushed her from my room the last time. White—the colour of where I’d stolen her from. White—the colour of her innocence that’d been ripped away. White—the colour of lies and half-truths and fear.

My fingers clanged to a stop. My bow dangled, vibrating with the last note I’d played. I’d lost myself so completely I’d shredded half the horsehair. I did this often. I had an endless supply of strings to replace those I broke.

I could never control how deep I’d go, how monstrous I’d play.

And now, I’d done something I didn’t want to do.

I’d terrified Pim.

Again.

“Hey…” My throat was barbwire. Gently placing the cello against the chair, I stood on shaky legs. “I didn’t see you come in.”

I wouldn’t have seen a torpedo come in when I was in such a space. But Pim didn’t need to know that.

“You okay?”

She couldn’t tear her eyes off the cello even as I stalked toward her. The sum of her past darkened her eyelashes, her eyes bright with ghosts.

Ducking in front of her, I murmured, “Music can’t hurt you, silent one.”

She flinched as I tried to loop our fingers together. Scurrying around me, she bolted for my cello.

Again?

Balling my hands, I growled. “You know the rules, Pim. Don’t fucking touch it.”

Take away my cello and you’ll take away me. “I need something to play. It’s either that or you. Your choice.”

She skidded to a stop a few feet away as if the instrument would lash out and punch her. As if the strings would come alive and tie her down while the bow violated her.

Hadn’t she climbed over her mountain of hate last time she was here? How could music be so abhorrent on such a deep level?

I played for you…did it do nothing?

You want her answers. She’s already telling you.

Moving toward her, I held out my hands as she whipped her head to face me. “I think other methods are required to train that unneeded fear from you.”

She gnawed on the inside of her cheek.

Edging around her, I grabbed the cello and sat back down, holding the large instrument to the side. “Come here.”

She blanched, backing away instead.

“Don’t disobey me. I’ve been more than cordial. I’ve been patient and mostly kind. But if you don’t start doing what the fuck I want, I’ll show you what happens when I get pissed off.” I patted my lap again. “Come. Here.”

Glowering with temper, she sniffed.

Then grudgingly, unwillingly, she shuffled forward and stood in front of me; her eyes still glued to the cello in my hand.

“At least, that’s a start. We’ll work on your attitude later.” Opening my left arm, I nodded at my crotch. “Sit.”

Her eyebrows rose; a barely noticeable shake of her head. It pleased me and annoyed me in equal measure. Since taking her a few weeks ago, she’d built a backbone to verbalize her unwillingness after so long in captivity. That was because of me. After the storm last night, I’d seen where I’d gone wrong.

She needed events to push her past her comfort zone. She had to be dragged back to normal by any means necessary.

I’d given her the time to find herself again.

It was my turn to show her who I was.

Then we could move forward together.

Before my desire explodes and I destroy everything.

Her eyes narrowed as I waited for her to obey. Our silence battled and clashed with muted swords, but finally she huffed and turned to perch on the very tip of my knee.

That wouldn’t work.