A Deathly Audience

Fynn looked behind him as he snuck out of the bar, making sure his brothers had not seen him. The streets of Pforzheim were full of propaganda posters for the war, which was in full swing. Fynn had a violin case in his hand, which had all sorts of nicks and grazes on it. It was drizzling as he made his way across the slippery granite floor.

Fynn performed whenever he could, wherever he could, throughout the town. On this occasion, he had been playing his violin until late evening in the bar, when he’d spotted his brothers from the windows and had hurriedly had to pack it up and sneak away. An old man at the front of the audience, who had been almost hypnotized by his song, had violently cursed when he had stopped playing.

The thought made Fynn smile.

At least he was a good musician.

The irony of the whole situation was that Fynn’s father had been the one to make him take music lessons as a kid, saying it built character, and was now against him pursuing a career in it. Instead, he wanted him to work in the workshop in their house to help the war effort. The town of Pforzheim had become a center for the production of precision equipment and almost every house in the town center had its own workshop now. Fynn had worked with his father there and he had absolutely been bored to death, not to mention the fact that he did not want anything to do with the war.

But then again… he thought as he put his hand in his pockets and felt the few coins he’d managed to earn today. His father had stopped giving him money saying he’d had to work for it, and with most musicians nowadays being hired only for propaganda, he didn’t quite know how he could earn money.

He didn’t have long to ponder, however, as the air raid siren began to blare through the streets.

***

Fynn had not been near any bomb shelter so he’d had to settle for going into a nearby house’s basement, which was full of people, many of whom he’d seen at the bar including the old man. A child was wailing at the top of his lungs as his mother tried desperately to calm him down. Fynn’s brothers were sitting right across from him, glaring at him, as he looked down avoiding their gaze. He had the violin case clasped between his legs.

“How about a song?” he heard someone ask.

He looked to his side. A young man was smiling at him.

“How about a song?” he repeated. “We could all use the distraction.”

Fynn looked around the basement at the rest. He spotted many encouraging looks, including the one from the old man. His brothers rolled their eyes.

Fynn carefully took out the violin; an immaculately polished dark wood French violin that had been gifted to him by his grandfather after he’d heard him play as a kid. Sometimes Fynn wondered maybe this was the reason his father did not want him to be a musician. Maybe he was jealous of him?

Fynn got to his feet and placed the bottom of the violin between his chin and collarbone, taking a few seconds to adjust. He decided to play the song that he had been playing at the bar, an uplifting musical piece by Mozart. He twirled the bow like he always did, and began playing.

He closed his eyes as he played, letting the music flow through him and his fingers followed, playing the rhythm onto the violin strings. The child had stopped crying. All was silent in the basement to the point they did not even hear the bombings that had already started to take place. Everyone was absorbed in the music.

When Fynn had stopped playing, he looked around in shock. There were corpses strewn all over the place. All his audience had died, including his brothers who lay there staring up at him.

He looked down to his feet, and saw his own body staring up at him, the violin and bow still clasped in his hand.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” said a voice from the shadows. A figure walked out into the light and stood in front of him. The figure was wrapped in a black cloak, that hid its face, and a robe which trailed across the floor. The hands were the only things that were exposed of its body and they shimmered white, until Fynn realized they were bones.

“Who… what are you?”

“I am Death,” said the figure crossing its skeletal hands in front of its body. “I came to collect the souls of the people here, including yours.”

“But why?”

Death looked up at the ceiling. “Because whoever built this basement used some really cheap materials which collapsed on you,” Death laughed. “I waited to take yours, however, because I did not want to interrupt you. You play really well. Reminds me of a man whose soul I came to take in this town, a man who died playing a violin in his sofa.”

Fynn knew instantly that he was talking about his grandfather because he had been the one to find him that way. It was a memory that had been forever etched into his memory.

“Before I take your soul away,” said Death. “How about one lost song? I am awfully tired of collecting souls during this war, I could use a break.”

Fynn paused for a moment as he looked around the room. Then he twirled his bow around and began playing.