Kill Me

by Alex Owens

  At the end of Quinn’s message, my husband of nine years, Pete, filled me in on what I’d missed in the twenty hours I’d been gone. Because apparently that was enough time for me to forget what a day in my own life was like.

  The washing machine was on the fritz (more likely an excuse to leave all the laundry for me to do later), the cat had hacked up a fur ball the size of an iguana, and Quinn was only eating salads. Oh and when was I coming home again? I sighed and deleted the message, imagining the dirty clothes multiplying like rabbits, because that’s what they do when I’m not around.

  I cut the connection to my voice-mail. I’d call them back while I changed for dinner at the hotel—I just didn’t have it in me at the moment. Struggling to tuck my phone in my blazer pocket, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going and ran into one of the foreign-looking guys that I’d seen earlier with the mystery woman.

  “So sorry!” I gasped, looking up into his chiseled face. It was blank, betraying no emotion, but in his deep-set green eyes I noticed the tiniest bit of surprise. And something else… maybe curiosity?

  “Pardon.” He said in a buttery foreign accent, before nodding and walking swiftly away.

  Well, that was a little rude. Or maybe not. What should he have done, bought me dinner? I ran into him, so why was I being all judgmental? And why in the hell was I suddenly starving?

  As if on cue, my stomach growled loud enough that several people looked my way. I had a dinner meeting with the people from the fastest growing girl-centric instrument company SheRawks! — but I wouldn’t last until then. New plan: finish the rest of my drop-ins as quickly as possible and get a snack before the monster in my belly tried to eat a client.

  For the next hour, I blazed through vendors from all different specialties. One minute I was chatting with high-adrenaline pedal affects makers and the next I was sipping a mild glass of Chianti with a Luthier that devoted so much time to his instruments that he only produced ten guitars per year and charged a fortune for his craftsmanship. Then it was off to compliment the makers of a hot new brand of rocker-inspired clothing, followed by conversing in stilted English with a concert promotions company based in Germany.

  Things were going smoothly so far and I considered my first day a blazing success. Little did I know the rest of my day wouldn’t go at all the way I’d planned it.

  Chapter 3

  Finally done for the day, I began the long walk from where I’d ended up on the north side of the convention floor to the south-side exit. My feet throbbed harder with each and every step I took, my legs trembled like Jell-O and my head was beginning to ache.

  Heels were out of the question for dinner later. That depressed me a little. I felt short in flats, frumpy even.

  As I neared the midpoint of the convention hall, I heard the most exquisite sound coming from a paneled booth just up ahead. Whoever the vendor was, they had constructed an elaborate stall and covered the outer walls with mahogany framed prints of various stringed instruments. I approached the booth and circled half-way around before I finally found the door, hidden behind a heavy satin-backed lace curtain.

  I didn’t see anyone standing outside, though I could make out several voices within. I felt weird about just walking in, like I’d be intruding. That was ridiculous of course, since hello! it was a booth at a convention. People were meant to go in and browse.

  I hesitated a few more seconds trying to make my feet move. Then, the lilting music began again, and my feet no longer put up a fight.

  Pushing back the curtain, I crossed over the threshold and had to keep myself from gasping. The booth was so much bigger on the inside. The floor was a marble mosaic tiled floor- the design reminding me of an old Italian fresco. I could have studied it for hours and still not have seen all the details.

  The walls were lit by candle, which was absurd since they were probably made of plywood and draped with yards of dark blue silk. The low light must be playing tricks on my eyes. And my ears—no one was playing an instrument inside.

  In the center of the room hung a modern drop-chandelier with three large crystal orbs. It dangled to within five feet of the floor. Arranged around this was a burnished leather curved settee in the color of cabernet. It was divided into four parts and spaced just far enough apart to form a circle with small gaps for passing through.

  Several well-dressed people sat around the circle talking quietly, while another half-dozen mingled around the rest of the space. Looking at them made me feel severely under-dressed. Self-conscious, I scanned the room again.

  The warm, glowing lights were placed every ten feet on the walls. Mounted in between the sconces was mahogany shelves, holding what were sure to be some of the most expensive antique stringed instruments I’d ever seen. Blood-red violins sat above pale blonde ukuleles. Gleaming guitars sat next to cinnamon instruments that I couldn’t begin to name. All were exquisite and they made me wish that I’d gotten my butt in gear and learned how to play the violin like I always said I would.

  Frowning as I thought of the of many things I’d always wanted to do, but never quite got around to doing, I crossed to the far wall where one extra-old violin sat alone on a shelf. I could tell it was special, even without its singular placement and trio of spotlights. I leaned closer to read the brittle yellowed placard that hung on the wall to the left of the violin.

  It said, “Violino Rosso Incantato di Anima, circa Vicenza, 1713” in careful flourished script.

  Italian, of course. Another thing I’d never gotten around to learning. Now all I needed was just one more reminder of my skilled procrastination and the day would be complete.

  “Shall I translate for you?” said a lyrical female voice from right beside me. It was the woman from the bathroom, standing so close that I could smell her lemony, spiced perfume.

  She flashed me an easy smile and said, “Loosely translated, it reads The Enchanted Blood Red Violin, circa Venice 1713.”

  She spoke with a heavily accented voice that was musical and passionate. Reaching up to stroke the priceless violin like one would a cat, she continued, “This violin speaks only to those that are worthy. And it has called to you.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about and my face must have shown my confusion. The woman looked at me with scrutiny, hesitated for a moment, and then reached for the violin.

  “Yes, we must play it.” She purred.

  While she removed the violin from its perch and motioned to someone who quickly brought over a rosined bow, I struggled to form a coherent thought.

  An enchanted violin? What did that mean; did it have a spell on it, one that let it talk? No, that didn’t sound right. She said it called to some, the worthy ones. Worthy of what?

  Not that I believed in that sort of thing.

  Why was I suddenly acting retarded? I realized that I hadn’t even uttered a word, and we’d nearly had half a conversation. I pinched myself and found my voice.

  “But, I don’t know how to play.” That was all I could muster, but at least it was coherent and a complete sentence. My first grade English teacher would be so proud.

  “Nonsense,” she said, taking a seat on the leather settee and waiving for me to sit.

  Nonsense? Once again I was confused.

  My body, on the other hand, thought it made perfect sense. I sat next to the woman without hesitation. We each crossed our legs at the same time. Then, I felt her slide closer to me, so that our legs touched. Her red shoe hung just a few inches over my black one. My heart rate sped up, but I did not pull away. Her closeness was a comfort, pulling me into the warmth of her nearness.

  And then she started to play.

  I closed my eyes and felt myself being swept into the ancient ballad, riding the flights of melancholia and drifting through the swells of euphoria. Without opening my eyes, I could hear the rest of the room fall silently away as she played on. Each note was beyond perfect.

  My hearing grew more acute and I began to discern the smallest d
ifference between the notes. The room smelled of lavender and the spicy citrus scent of bergamot— two opposing scents wafting through the air in a melody of their own.

  After what seemed like an eternity, yet not nearly long enough, the music faded away and carried the perfumed air with it. I felt the loss viscerally, and placed my hand to my chest as if to comfort my broken heart. A single tear swept down my face.

  I was only semi-aware of my surroundings as the music retreated further away, until I couldn’t be sure that I’d actually heard it to begin with. She placed a hand on my exposed knee, the soft coolness of her skin causing goose bumps to blossom across my flesh. She leaned in closer, her raven hair sweeping over my shoulder.

  “Now, you play,” she whispered.

  I looked up into her dark amaretto eyes and uttered, “But I can’t.”

  “How do you know, if you don’t try,” she said.

  Huh? That didn’t make any sense, but then again neither did my reaction.

  I held out my hand and she transferred the violin to me like one would a newborn baby. My hands shook as I pulled the violin and bow into position, mimicking as she had done only minutes before. I had no idea what I was doing, but somehow my actions felt natural and fluid as I lifted the violin into position and readied the bow.

  Then, I closed my eyes and I played.

  It felt like I’d been born to do it. I could feel my soul being woven into the notes, producing a melody that was lighter and more tentative than hers had been.

  I began to smell the heavy scent of vanilla and rose and my song became that of springtime and comfort. The bow felt weightless in my hand as it glided over the strings, vibrating and alive. The violin became an extension of my body and I wondered how I’d ever lived without it.

  I opened my eyes.

  The room was awash in a light fog of purples and yellows. I wondered if I was the only one who could see the pastel colors lilt and drift, like they were born from the music. If not true magic, it was certainly magical to me.

  I looked to the woman to see if she saw the lights as well, but her eyes were closed, her face lifted toward the ceiling. Her lips moved, singing a silent song, the words foreign to my ears.

  Too soon, the song was played out.

  I cradled the violin in my arms and sat silently while the muted conversations returned around the room. I had no explanation for any of it, but in that moment I really didn’t care to search for answers. I was busy basking in the feeling that lingered.

  The closest words I could use to describe how I felt are divine fulfillment or charged. I was sated, overflowing with bubbling euphoria. My skin tingled as the vibrato continued throughout my body.

  The woman sighed, “You see, I told you the violin always chooses well.” She patted me on the knee and stood up, holding her hands out for the violin.

  I didn’t want to give it up. I wanted to take it home with me. I wanted to wake up to it and fall asleep with it. I was in love with that damned violin, and to be cleaved from it meant leaving a part of my soul behind.

  Then the rational side of me finally secured a voice of its own. I could rob a bank and still not afford something so rare and beautiful. It probably cost more than I would earn in a lifetime. Saddened, I relinquished the violin and stood.

  “Thank you for letting my play it, Ms...” I started to say before I realized that we’d not had a proper introduction.

  “We are friends, no! You may call me Elisabetta or Bette, which ever you prefer.”

  My brain was finally functioning again. “It’s been a pleasure Bette,” I said hoping it didn’t come off as snooty as it has sounded. “My name is Claire. Claire Ciapanna.”

  No, it’s not. Why the hell had I said that?

  Bette grinned widely. “Perfecto, a fellow countryman! Clara!”

  She opened her arms wide and folded me into her embrace. I tensed, not used to such public contact, let alone with strange Italian women. Still, a part of me, that tiny part that I was getting rather ticked at, not only allowed the hug but enjoyed it.

  She smelled heavenly and the coolness of her chest pressed against mine made my heart flutter and my skin tingle. It was like she was a drug and I couldn’t get enough.

  Mercifully, Bette broke the embrace and held me at arm’s length. “We have dinner tonight!”

  I wanted to say yes. I wanted to run for the hills. I wanted to cry because I couldn’t accept her invitation.

  I shook my head, “I’m sorry. I have a meeting with some clients over dinner.”

  Bette looked mildly insulted, but brightened quickly, “Drinks after then.”

  Relieved and terrified, I accepted and Bette walked me to the entrance of the booth. As I pushed back the curtain to exit, an audible zap leapt from my fingertips to the heavy fabric.

  “Oh!” I gasped. Then feeling like a bumbling idiot I shrugged my shoulders and qualified, “Happens all the time, you’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

  Bette looked at me with a curious expression; part amusement, with a little smidgen of perplexed. That was odd.

  “I will see you at nine!” She disappeared behind the curtain, leaving me standing in the wake of weary visitors heading for the exit.

  I realized too late that we’d never set a meeting place. I didn’t even know where she was staying. I felt like an idiot. Maybe it had been some Italian version of a brush off?

  It was probably for the best. The whole experience had left me raw and stirred-up, and I had no idea what I was doing or why I was doing it. Dejected, I joined the mass of people heading back to their hotels. I had to put my game face on for my dinner meeting and I didn’t have time to worry about the rest. I’d meet with the clients, eat a meal and maybe have a drink at the hotel bar before heading back to my room for some much needed sleep.

  The night was settled then. Or so I thought.

  Chapter 4

  The day had been long and I’d logged more footsteps than any woman in high heels should. Plus there was the whole foreign-lady attraction, the possessed violin (that I’d played!) and the vague feeling that I was falling down the rabbit hole. How long before I found a note that said “Eat Me” I wondered?

  I jumped in one of the dozens of cabs waiting for conference attendees and willed myself to relax, which was rather hard considering my driver was hell-bent on wrapping us around a parking meter. As bad as his driving was, the music was worse. My hotel was only a few minutes away and I promised myself a hot soak in the tub so long as I didn’t snap and shove the radio dial up the cabbie’s nose.

  I was pulled out of my mental bribery by the feeling of my cell phone vibrating. It was either my husband or Quinn. I didn’t answer, deciding to wait until I’d reached the quiet confines of my hotel room.

  My driver didn’t have enough sense to turn down the “Kill the bitches, beat ‘em ho’s” song, so I was fairly confident he’d not have the decency to lower the volume while I took a call. When I was almost to the point of smacking some ho’s myself, my hotel came into view.

  “Keep the change,” I said, handing him a ten-dollar bill. As soon as the car door shut, he sped off squealing tires.

  After a quick trip up to my seventh-floor room in the tiny elevator, I entered, kicked off my shoes, dropped my purse on the bed, and shucked my clothes. I started a bath, dumping in more than enough bubbles to float the Titanic, and then went in search of my cell phone. I found it on the floor beside my purse.

  Pete answered, “I called you a little while ago, why didn’t you answer?”

  Great, he was in a bad mood too. That didn’t bode well for the coming conversation. I mentally ran through my possible responses, from “I’m sorry, I was busy getting a musical lesson on the perils of prostitution” to “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because I was busy earning my paycheck?” before going with the standard response to a stupid question.

  “I was busy.”

  “Whatever,” he said, knowing how much I hated that word. He might hav
e well said F-you. “Here’s Quinn.”

  I mentally added to the list of things I don’t like about Pete (he can be so petulant sometimes) while I waited for Quinn to get on the line. My heart warmed at the sound of her voice. I could picture her there right in front of me—her blonde pig-tails flapping, her smile wide and eager as she bounced in place, barely able to contain her excitement.

  “Mom, guess what!” Quinn said.

  “What honey?” I went to turn off the tub before the water reached overflow-level.

  “I made the honor roll and Mrs. Miracle said I was getting an award next Tuesday for improving the most-est!”

  “Wow, Quinn! I’m so proud of you!” And I really was. She’d had a hard time adjusting from private school to public school this year. I’d hated every second of it, but I’d had little choice once Pete’s temporary unemployment had stretched into a year and a half of loafing around.

  Quinn giggled. “Daddy says we’re going out for pizza to celebrate... only you can’t come because you’re working.”

  I’d heard the lilt in Quinn’s voice evaporate at that last part and I knew that Pete had taken another small dig at me yet again.

  “That’s okay sweetie. I really wish I could be there, but as soon as I’m done earning us some money I’ll take you for the biggest ice cream sundae that Sherbert’s has on the menu. How does that sound?”

  I did feel bad about stooping to Pete’s level, but what else was I supposed to do? Let Quinn believe, as her father does, that I chose to spend so much time working away from them?

  “Can we go tomorrow after school?” she begged.

  “No, I won’t be home for a few more days, but I promise we’ll go as soon as I get home. Okay?” Sometimes, this working-mother thing stinks.

  I’d gladly trade a few equal rights to get back to the times when moms were expected to stay at home with the kids and dads were obligated to bring home the damn bacon.