unfathomable metaphysics

Their home always smelled of vanilla, added to freshly baked cakes, of roses wildly surrounding the garden, and of incense lit in the evenings. Passersby passed this kingdom with delight and a veiled envy; young girls approached the windows, absorbing the truly idyllic views that formed the foundation of their naive dreams. People spoke with admiration of how truly home was—not just an impressive structure in good taste, but also an exemplary, happy family. She herself never used the word "home." It evoked too much association with a desperate desire to belong somewhere, to be connected to someone. She never returned; she could only go back; returning, as an unfortunate regression, would belie her earthly calling—an eternal journey, a pursuit of the inscrutable. When she did speak, for she was mostly silent, she used peculiar, sometimes even inappropriate words. Her interlocutors didn't mind at all; the content of her monologue was so captivating that all the rules of grammar, syntax, and logic ceased to exist. She didn't engage in dialogue; for ordinary mortals, she was a captivating presence, and she herself was too dim-witted to consciously direct her words at anyone, so she delivered monologues, interrupted by a sympathetic pause during which the interlocutor had the right to express themselves. In vain, she seemed oblivious to this nervous, eloquent chatter.

Despite possessing the hearts of others even as a teenager, her parents worried about her uncertain future. They lived in a small cottage on the edge of the forest, and the frail old woman was denied a peaceful night's sleep. Her father had completely surrendered from the moment the girl refused to help with daily chores, to continue his hard work. They were filled with wild anxiety when their little one took up the bow, gliding perfectly along the violin's strings for hours. It was this perfection that the straightforward woman feared most; within her lay an almost divine power, implacable, and to mortals, she thundered ominously. She prayed that the child would be interrupted reluctantly, exhausted by the constant composition of notes, weary of the constant stream of music. She began to truly hate the music pouring from everywhere, the old violin, which she had so lovingly cared for. Every so often, her father would bring a handsome, honest young man to help with the work. The effect was electrifying; as soon as the suitor saw the young artist, he fell to his knees before her. He visited his love daily, gifting her with the most expensive chocolates, for which he likely had to sell more than one family heirloom. It was unclear whether she guessed the father and the young man's intentions; she always acted the same way. She dragged them on long walks into the wild forest, indulged in passionate confessions, and shunned tender gestures. The whole process didn't last long. One day, suffering, but not through rejection, the young man visited his parents, apologizing profusely, assuring them that their daughter was a unique being, until, due to his mundane nature, he felt unworthy of her. Time passed, the parents became ill, and the daughter's otherness deepened. She experienced periods during which her eyes sparkled, she stopped eating, played melodies at night, smelled of the forest, and refused to respond to any attempts to connect with her. His mother devised an elaborate plan to destroy the violin, and his father begged her to go to a convent. Salvation came with a young, already successful, official who arrived in town. This official didn't shy away from contact with women, especially the physical kind. In less than a few months, he had every woman in his life infatuated with him, from young ladies with barely visible breasts to happily married women in their prime. He didn't shy away from their pleasures, which transformed his encounter with a truly angelic being. He first saw her playing the violin in the middle of the forest—she hummed and twirled, all in white. He struck up a conversation, and although his efforts were never appreciated, nor honored with a kind word, or a word at all, he accompanied her every afternoon, running straight from work into the wild forest. This went on for some time; she grew accustomed to his company, the scent he brought—coffee, stacks of papers, those enchanted glances. One rainy day, when he decided his walk into the forest was pointless, he paid a visit to a tiny forest cottage. He declared his ardent, sincere love,He asked for two months, during which he would be ready to build a true palace, the one his chosen one deserved. The overjoyed mother breathed a sigh of relief for all the years of anxiety she had begun to feel just by looking at the snow-white creature in the cradle. She kissed the hated violin, handed it to her daughter, "Play!" she demanded, "It's a happy day!" There was no end to the joy; the official, overjoyed by the eager reception, beamed like a little boy who had received a longed-for gift. Only she remained silent throughout, seeming to wander in distant realms, filled with ironic contempt for these mundane joys. When she was remembered and anxiously asked for her opinion, she fell silent, put down the bow, and stopped the music ruthlessly. She only looked at the man who had fallen in love with her, for the first time so humanly, so consciously. She picked up the bow again and began to compose, turning with the violin cradled against her shoulder. Because the sounds were joyful, devoid of fear or hatred, all three breathed a sigh of relief, taking it at face value and beginning to truly rejoice.

Throughout all these years, he had loved her with the same passionate, teenage love, a feeling that ignited him from within. Naturally prone to brawls, fond of resolving matters by force, loud, even primitive, he softened under her inattentive gaze, believing she was meant for him. He discovered previously unknown reserves of warmth and tenderness, which he longed to channel into their intimacy. At the same time, ignited by this mad love, a truly animal instinct awoke within him. He desired her until he felt a stabbing pain in his temple. She could only experience pleasure by surrendering to the sounds of the violin. Her husband's animalistic desires aroused in her disgust and a sense of filth. On hot nights, she screamed for long stretches, struggled, and her body turned to stone. Every amorous pleasure quenched his thirst, and in her, in turn, evoked a sense of sin. When her husband, weary, fell asleep, she would jump up like a startled fawn and grab the bow. This was her penance, which she recited long and arduously. She gave birth to four beautiful children, whose names she never remembered, so she called them "little ones." The children were exceptionally sensitive to her charm, patiently waiting for their mother to finish playing, smile, and invite them to her most wonderful frolics. He hoped that in those long hours devoted to the children, she would find the same passion and fulfillment that playing gave her—in vain. Over time, he began to act as if he had stopped loving her, allowing hatred to grow within him instead. He was irritated by her unwavering whiteness, her light gait, which gave the impression of floating in another galaxy, her charm that captivated no one. He tried everything. When she played too long, he'd interrupt her aggressively, slam his beloved instrument to the ground, and grip her shoulders tightly, as if to ground her, to shake her from the constant lethargy that made her float above the ground. She didn't scream, didn't resist; he had the impression she understood his intentions perfectly. She looked straight into his eyes, without the typical little girl's confusion or the artist's chaos—she looked genuinely, as an unhappy woman looks, unwilling to scream, or perhaps desperately screaming inside. He'd let her go immediately, avert his face from that gaze, cover his ears as if afraid she'd explode. But a moment later, she'd charm him again with that inscrutable smile. So, when she hadn't played for a long time recently, he'd been filled with hope that this time there would be no more nightly cries, that he could truly possess her. He wanted not only the suppleness of her fragrant, snow-white body, but also her soul. He wanted to penetrate her secret, to become one with her. He became convinced that a figure lurked within her, filled with evil power, whose solace, her antidote to this inhuman soul, was music. That night, as soon as he had her ensnared, she began stamping, biting, and struggling from his strong embrace. Fleeing in terror, she fell down the stairs, breaking her leg.The six-week cast was like a breath of fresh air to him. She needed his care, and besides, she was no longer gliding with the lightness of air. She walked heavily, sighed, and made a lot of noise around her. He watched her with delight as she leaned back on her crutches with relief. She had also abandoned playing; she didn't derive sufficient pleasure from it, unable to spin in light pirouettes. Whenever she began, her mother's old desire was fulfilled; she flung the bow into the abyss, filled with anger at being grounded. But after six weeks, the machine began to move with a vengeance—she moved even more quietly, played for days and nights, forbidding access to herself, as if the time without playing had confused her senses and now she needed to clarify herself. He thought it might be a mental disorder, so he summoned the best specialists from Europe. He called them fools when they returned beaming from their conversations with the patient, assuring them that she was the most angelic being on the planet. He shouted that he needed a sober doctor, not a sensitive man who couldn't resist a woman's attentions.

When she stopped breathing, when asked by the doctor about the cause of death, he replied suicide. One day, she was forced to decide that her end was near. She gave her beloved violin to her descendants to be vandalized and the remains buried near her family home. She burned her collection of white clothing, from then on wearing only black. She began clicking her heels, calming her husband's eternal anxieties. The nights were no longer filled with the screams that used to prelude the most magnificent, refined melodies she played; there was neither screaming nor music. He, too, softened, forgetting the hatred and feelings of alienation he had nurtured for years. He hoped, at least now, at the end of her life, to hear an explanation, to experience the charms of her surrealism. Although she allowed herself to be taken on long walks, accepted invitations to elegant dinners, questioned her children about their school successes and first love affairs, she remained silent about the past. Her alternative realities dissolved with the violin; she didn't send smiles into space, he didn't have to chase her gaze, slyly believing that under the influence of his sinister gaze, some being would materialize there, would glimpse some key to unraveling her secrets. He watched her recede, the life draining from her. He wondered if this ordinariness was killing her, or if she simply couldn't function without her jewels, the insignia of the queen of metaphysics. One day, she suddenly mentioned that she feared the unknown, that she feared death, that she would prefer to have her violin with her; then she would surely die beautifully. He didn't understand, stunned by her uttering those inaccessible words at once—violin, death... In reality, the one who guided her to another dimension had found her on a beautiful day, tormenting her for over twenty-four hours. She choked, spat blood, began to lose her mind, screaming incoherent words, crying, laughing uncontrollably. She died in a sordid, miserable manner, bearing no resemblance to her impressive life.