Beethoven’s hands trembled
with anticipation and his lower lip quivered. He was too close to give up, the
time was now. His stroll turned into a trot as he hurried down an empty field,
gazing at the inky sky and the downpour, mind constantly racing. His hands
started moving from up to down, as though he was playing and imaginary violin.
His heartbeat quickened as he recognized the street lamp in front of the shack.
He pushed the door open and immediately slammed it back. No, he will not be
disturbed. Glancing at the dreary interior of the shack, he picked up his
violin and played. The tremble in his hand reduced and his shivering stopped.
His body seemed to relax as he played the violin and his anticipation was
quelled. His confidence rose; he was a born musician, a true artist. The
symphony was divine, it seemed as though nature itself had held its breath. His
eyes thinned to slits and turned red. His body gleamed as the moonlight
collided with a pale skin, giving him a supernatural effect. He was no longer a
man; he was a messenger of the Gods. The World was a void, and his, the only
soul. His violin seemed to be telling a tale, a tale that started on a rainy
night. The melody was soft, yet the message was aggressive. His fingers ran
down the strings, as though the instrument was a part of his body. The piece
grew larger and larger, and his worry reduced. His fingers danced on the
violin, eager to play a final note on the instrument, and completing the very
final aspect of his legendary piece, a piece worth recognition by the Gods. The
wind blew as the final note struck, as though signing with relief, the music of
the Gods had been revived. Beethoven seemed lost in thought, as he turned his
neck back to stare at the sole witness to the music, a man sitting in an
armchair, an expression of pure shock on his face. With a half smile on his
face, he quietly walked out of the room. Moonlight Sonata was born.
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