It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.

The pianist ran towards the violinist, fist raised high; the thunder roared on his behalf.

The violinist brandished his bow like an adept swordsman; the rain came down like all the angels in heaven decided to take a leak at the same time.

All this over a girl.

Their makeshift weapons clashed, it produced only music. It produced only a sad reminder to the glory of their old days spent together – fragments of their past duet.

The girl looked on with repressed detachment.

Over the hills and far away, came a soothing song of tremendous tranquility. It may well be what armistice sounds like when it calls to you. It was then that they both realized they were not meant for war, nor were they made for war.  

The girl is traipsing away.

Still, reluctantly, they resumed the fight with halved ferocity. Each additional blow seemed to complete their past duet, until the entirety of the song circulated in the very air around them. At long last they halted to this, their intentions for a moment not sanguine. Each stared straight into the other’s gaze, searching for so much more than hostility, searching for the remaining residue of their golden history.

The violinist’s bow fell from his bloody hands. Bloody hands, hands as bloody as Macbeth’s.  

The pianist unclenched his fists. A relaxed hand could grasp so much more.

They squeezed their eyes shut and savored the calmness, the calmness after the storm. Then they fell to their knees, and hopelessly tried to nurse the turmoil caused, the damage done.    

In a split second, you’re handed hatred and forgiveness, do you give in to your inner fire, or do you let things go? That’s the million dollar question.

The violinist stumbled towards the mirror in the corner and checked his bruises, his features resembling a rhinoceros.  

It was a bright cold day in April, and my heart is at rock bottom.