It was a strange town. Full of strange people. A place where the light danced, and told you that nothing was wrong. But there was something wrong. Something horrible. And it was music.



Every day, just after the sun set, you could hear a lonely violin, playing from the balconey of the largest house. It was a beautiful song, but was so sad. It spoke of loneliness, of the people who had nothing left. It cried for someone, anyone, to come to it, to alleviate the pain.



And people did come. Children, grandmothers, your average Joe. They were people who couldn't take the song, as it swirled along the wind. So they went to the house. They would follow the melancholy aria. They would come to the largest house in town, and knock on the vast pine doors.



It would creak open, another sound of solitude, one that added itself to the violin. And the people would walk inside. The door would creak more, louder.



Then, within the bowels, a baby wailed, crying for a mother, joining the salute to seclusion. Then, a woman would weep, weep of lost love. The wind would howl through the open spaces. A cold rain would clack against the windows. And all through, the woeful violin would continue it's song, growing louder and louder, until the unfortunate being to be caught in its grasp could take it no longer.

Everyone did it differently. They would find a chair, and hang themselves, snapping their necks. They would happen upon a kitchen knife, and slit their throats, splashing the crimson on the fine carpets, spattering the tasteful paintings. They would literally tear themselves apart, ripping their ears off, and, finding no respite, would rend the skin off their very bones, and still they couldn't stop the Go.d-awful symphony, and would tear the meat from themselves, throwing it every which way, trying to make it stop.

But it was only when the last drop had flowed out of them, did the violin finally cease. And the violinist would look over the gristle and the gore, the bones, the human meat, the flesh.


And he would smile.