The Flute's Memory


The Flute's Memory

The tears stacked in his eyes like the concrete of a dam. Stifled and unyielding, the waters were kept at bay by sheer force of will. The mind reeling, jumping from thought to thought without time for a reply. Each word and thought was accompanied by a dozen more bubbling to the surface.

The thoughts drifted. Away from immediate issues. Away from the causes of this predicament. The red rimmed eyes fixated on a point on the dresser opposite.

The flute.

Pulling back the haze in his mind, a single memory hurled forth to replay against the internal darkness of his eyelids. Music. It had always given him comfort back then. Whenever loneliness, bullys, or sadness found him he retreated to the dark circles on the page. The calligraphy font of a musical direction to follow a phrase or to repeat back to a Coda.

But it had failed him before.

The feelings tremored underneath his eyes. Cross-legged on the matress, clutching the silver instrument. The tears poured from underneath the childs eyes. Shaking, the boy raised the flute to his lips. Breathy and aired, a note sounded loosely through the sniffles. Shaking his head and sitting up straighter, he repositioned his back to be ram-rod straight. Then, leveling the flute with the ground he played.

Eyes closed, the muscle memory served him well. The strains of a concert piece began to take place around him. However, the brows were furrowed. The stance rigid and the music was not having the relaxing effect it should have. A few more measures and the air wouldn't come to play the notes anymore.

Tears reappeared and shined the eyes into sorrow. The streaks of tears making small rivers down the cheeks dribbled down the chin and when the boy paused to wipe them away, the flute came down, the shoulders slumped and the hand never made it to the chin. Tightly clenched, the child's hands flipped through the sheet paper, looking for anything that would stop the feelings.

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