A 3+4 195 Word Challenge.

By Icka! M. Chif

Sometimes I think Quatre is playing with me.

Not cruel games, but more like he plays his violin. Very carefully and with a great deal of tenderness and caring.

He is the bow, I am the violin and my masks are the strings. My masks are stroked, plucked and made to thrum like golden notes until they are shattered and fade off into silvery silence, never more to be heard from again.

And before I can erect another mask to take it's place, he's already on to the next one, destroying that one as well with his cheerful nature and gentle smile. And the next one as well, and the next one, and the next one. Until there is nothing left of my masks to separate him and me but a symphony behind us.

Sometimes it's terrifying. I fear what will occur when I have no more masks to protect me. To protect him. Will he see me for what I am and be terrified? Or will there be nothing left of me at all?

But it's alright.

Because at night, when no one else is around, I like to play Quatre like a flute.