her song

She was music.

Notes discordant engaged in their unending struggle against dulcet chords.
When you listened closely, the variations in theme, mood and flow were distinct at times, merged at others.

Sometimes the melody would swell out, filling you with possessive music, disabling you of other feeling until the pregnancy of sound had subsided. No regret for the finality because the satisfaction was complete.

But you could feel this change.
The gathering power of some disturbance was making itself known before it had arrived - no courtesy here, only inspiring vague apprehension.

The music played on, pleasant monotony now that those happier notes had spent themselves. Underlying notes were being gathered in now, tossed into the repetition and whirled, while the notes quickened, breathless.

The sky sometimes is violet coloured while the sun shines obscenely, waiting to be blackened by an impatient storm. This repetition was only that fascinated expectancy before the climax of tortured notes.

It came. Deliberately ordered but seemingly out of control in its ferocity, harsh, untamed chords that blacked the memory of any former beauty in the music.

And she could hear, through the thick beat of this music, the laughter of people who would not understand.
And she left, the music ebbing and dying as she walked through the rain.

God was playing her song.