Rich ebony sound, filtering through the hidden recesses of every orifice within my crooked body.

Ah, he plays the violin so well, plays it like a man who paints a picture…

I expect that is the same caress a mother gives an infant…

I stir, then stop. He mustn’t think I am anything but asleep…

Ah, he knows I am waking. Such uncanny knowledge. He knows.

He always knows…

If he knows, I shall not bother to hide my feelings.

I lay back, lean against these cushions, eyelids flutter closed.

Sweet notes, such beauty, cleansing, rinsing, a gentle stroke of sound brushing against the skin of my cheek.

And then a pause.

He hesitates?

The echo of the tune slides through my mind, and I am agitated…

Soft, a hand upon the coverlet.

My eyes flutter open, to see a gloved hand smooth the creases in the blanket.

He almost touches me…

Then he leans back and lifts the instrument to its former position.

In a moment I have forgotten that collision of our two wholes…

It will be displaced in the morning, I will not remember the brief act of compassion…

It will be displaced by the very real, very explainable actions of a monster…

But dreams hold him forever encased in that majesty of sound.

A light in the gloom…