Screeching, thundering, wailing. Louder and louder in what seems an unbearable torrent. I cover my ears but it doesn’t shut out the sound.

It’s in my head.

Can’t anyone else hear it? The Devil’s music played on the Devil’s instrument. The screaming of the violin grows louder with every passing moment.

‘My God! It’s going to drive me mad!’ I think. ‘But no one else can hear it. The music is in your head.’ The great pouring of sound from the invisible violin drowns out all else. Nothing can penetrate this cacophony. My eardrums will burst-

Stop!

With one last dying shrike it ends.

And silence closes in.

There is nothing but this horrible ringing silence. ‘No, please.’ I pray ‘Not this. Not this impenetrable silence. Not this damnable silence. Bring back the violin. Bring back it’s tortured voice. Anything, anything but this deafening silence!’

Play on, my phantom fiddler.

Thin slip of a girl. That was how her grandmother would describe her. Short and slight with long silky black hair and large chocolate brown eyes. The wind blew around her face , around her ankles. Snow caught in her fine black hair as she trudged home. She would have called a cab , had she not forgotten her money. She was always forgetting things like that. Money, food, sleep. Such trivialities of everyday life could not penetrate the music that swarmed in her mind. Inside, into the elevator. Water dripping as the snow melted off her clothes. Black wool coat, ankle length black velvet skirt, black boots. She clutched her violin closely as she exited the elevator and entered the apartment, always left unlocked because she so often forgot her keys. She took off the coat, revealing a cream cable knit sweater beneath. She set down the case and walked over to the piano. A shiny Grand piano that sat on it’s own oriental rug of red and gold. A silver candelabra sat on it’s black lacquered top. She lifted back the cover on the keys and began to play. The first movement of Beethoven’s Pathétique. Over and over she played until Bryon came in.

"Please Anna. Something else. You play that too much; you’re too hard on the piano. We’ll have to have it tuned again. Play your violin."

Her kind brother. So gentle with his little sister, the genius, the madwoman. Look how he took her in, her brother, the rich one. No worry of money for them, no. Nothing to bother Anna, his beloved little sister. He pulled her hands from the keys where they’d frozen. He brought her the violin. Not a priceless instrument, no Strad, this. She was too hard on it for that. He placed it in her hands, and waited calmly. She stood, checked the strings and bow mechanicly, and put the violin under her chin.