Strings of His Soul.

Now the Sabbath had come, a great Sabbath indeed, and Chris was ready for the day. He'd awaited it all his life for it, leaving his cherished Laura and his motherland just for this day. So he rose earlier than anyone differently and they drove to the church.

The morning air was crisp and clear, and the sound of hymns filled the air. Chris felt his heart swell with emotion as he heeded to the songs of deification. But beneath the face, a sense of apprehension dallied, like a shadow lurking in the corners of his mind.

As they entered the church, Chris felt a surge of admiration and reverence marshland over him. The stained glass windows cast a show of colors upon the pews, and the scent of incense filled the air. He took his place among the congregation, his heart beating with expectation. The service began, and Chris lost himself in the music and prayers.

He played his guitar with all his heart, his strings joining with those around him in a chorus of praise. The strings now spoke to him on a deep position, stirring feelings he'd long kept hidden.

Now a commodity peculiar began to be, something he wished he could forget with all his muscles. It was real, it was passing again, and he felt small and helpless. She was there, right there beside Ann, and they were drooling.

Chris's eyes grew pale, his body shaking, and he couldn't play presently. His demon was back, hanging him formerly more. Fear and query consumed Chris.

The specter of his history had returned to afflict him, hanging to unravel the fragile peace he'd set up. He stood there, pulsing, as the music faded down and the congregation turned to look at him.

Ann reached out to him, her touch gentle and soothing." What's it?" she rumored, concern etched upon her face. He couldn't find the words to express the terror that gripped his soul.

He looked up to Ann and felt at home, his strength recovering. He refocused his demon on her, but she allowed him to be joking. He was serious, so she nudged him for being silly.

Latterly, they walked home. Chris's mind played a song- a song of happiness and ease-commodity he'd endured for. Ann walked by his side, her eyes stealing furtive ganders at his face as she smiled. But Tomas wasn't happy; he lowered and soughed and snapped at his son. A feeling of wrath filled him; he endured to scold the boy for his conduct.

That night, Chris sustained to speak with Ann about it, for something held him back. He came to play his guitar by her side, and all she could hear were the sweet strains speaking of his love for Amelia.

Maybe he couldn't return to the two-dimensional representations of love so typical of the time. To him, love was an amiss part of the mortal condition- a force of nature, earthy and occasionally uneasy.

" Her name is Amelia," she began in a low, tender tone. He felt as if there was ether in the veritably sound of her name. And physically, too, he sounded like an airy spirit-Ariel, intolerant to be set free.

Now Ann arose from her seat, with intent to depart, but he detained her Capulet for a moment," Will you speak of my love to her, I supplicate," he supplicated, and she bestowed upon him a smile, whereupon he released her.

The night was still, and nature made no sound, save for the song of the justices and the air of the catcalls. Chris slumbered but suddenly started from his sleep as if roused by the dead. Yes, he'd pictured of Laura-her wrath upon him, for he'd bartered her love for another. And he felt a song play within him, a song whose air was woven from the horselaugh of hyenas and the hooting of owls.

He refused to speak to Ann, but also a study struck him of what would she suppose of him. He was a man, and that had to remain so. Furthermore, he dragged his sick branches to the armchair and cast a mournful regard at his guitar, which sounded to return his sympathy with a silent string.

Likewise, he endured to play, to drown the memory of his treason, to soothe his restless demon, but he felt delicate, despair upon his brow. So he lay awake through the dismal night, and when the dawn broke, he still felt crushed, as if he'd been burgled of his masculinity.

Maybe he wasn't to condemn, for he'd climbed the tree of love a boy and descended a youthful man, but maybe he'd learned nothing of its mystification. Tomas and Kimmel were over too, and they sat with two other men, belting their coffee and drooling with gaiety. Chris passed by them, his eyes fixed on the ground, but Tomas paid no heed to him, for he knew Chris well, and guessed he'd another wretched day.

Ann watched him evaporate among the backwoods and read his silent tragedy in the way his bases touched the earth. She followed him at a distance. He was by the reinforcement, playing his rueful passions, when she came near and sat by his side. She saw the grief on his face and he turned down.

" You." Her voice faltered a little as if searching for words that would not wound his soul. She reached out to touch his shoulder, but he squinched. " I see her in your eyes," she said vocally." The bone who haunts you."

He ignored her, playing on. " Chris, please speak."

Maybe she knew not the cause of his anguish, that she came to induce further pain with her words. Now she tore him apart, with the dreadful news of his father's departure from the city in a fortnight. His soul was destroyed with agony, but maybe Ann was ignorant of the detriment she had done. The weight of his anguish hung heavy upon him as if the veritably air he breathed was thick with despair.

He could feel the cold fritters of grief clinging to his heart, and he knew that he'd in no way be the same again. The world now desisted to feel around him, and all that remained was a bleak and desolate geography, devoid of stopgap or joy. And yet, through it all, he couldn't bring himself to detest Ann, for she was but a pawn in the cruel game of fate.