Fantasy, Home

Play A Song For Me Lover

Plink. Plunk. Plink. Plink. plunk.

Over and over she swept her fingers across the strings. Over and over drops of red dripped from pale fingers with every pluck of the wire. Still, through the ever-continuous pain, the ever-growing puddle running off her instrument in rivers, still, she continued to play.

Plink. Plink. Plink. Plunk. 

The same notes, over and over, a song she’d been repeating for decades. A soft melody, a muted cry for help, a question muttered on every exhale that would never be answered. When will you return? She asked without words, humming with the song, a bittersweet tune trapped in the cage of her ribs, the hollows of her slender throat.

Still, despite everything, she played. She plucked the strings of her beloved instrument, on her knees, once brilliant dress pooling around her. Pale fabric stained, its former colors drained from exposure, with weeds tangling along the hem, her legs already half-buried in the soil, the earth softened from the many passing storms.

Plink. Plunk. Plink. Plink. Plunk.

Pale and tired, eyes dim, face hollow she played. Awaiting the return of her beloved, the only clear face in her memory left. She played their song, in the hopes the notes would reach him, call him back to her.

Every day she prayed the notes would bring him back into her waiting arms, bring back his warmth and joy, she felt so lost and cold without it. So she waited, plucking the strings, her lifeblood dripping, always dripping without a care, from her torn fingers, painting the strings dark, feeding the rust-tinged green beneath. A soft smile painted across her pale lips, as unfaltering as her hands.

Plink. Plunk. Plink. Plink. Plunk.

The song rang out, echoing throughout the forest, throughout the empty cottage behind her, long fallen into ruin, nearly completely claimed by nature. Her home; forgotten, lost behind the ever-unchanging notes that consumed her every thought, except of course, for the vision of her beloved. A man whose name she remembered even though she’d lost her own.

Called away to war, she’d promised to wait, promised to play him a song when he came home. So she played, and played, and played, awaiting his return with love, even as time moved on, even as the earth rose steadily, calmly around her. Even as her home fell into decay, even as her mind melted under the gaze of the sun and moon, even as her fingers bleed–

She played.

Forever would she play, for she had promised him a song, and she was nothing if not a dutiful wife. So even as the years passed, even as the world moved forward without her, she waited for her husband. So sure in his return, she kept up the song she had promised, she continued to play.

Plink. Plunk. Pink. Plunk.

And play.

Plink. Plunk. Plink. Plink.

And play.


Until the day he would return.

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