In the impenetrable darkness he sat, strains of Borodin’s 3rd symphony accompanying the quintessential glass of whiskey, (half empty with a rapidly dissolving ice cube, for those fixated on the details). A lazy circle of smoke floated gently up from the cigarette enslaved between his short stubby fingers. Unremarkable fingers. In fact, ugly fingers almost.
Yes, those short stubby unremarkable ugly fingers, amusingly inept and worthless though they may seem, once had the power to make grown men weep, and beautiful maidens throw their virginity to the winds. It made old maids young, and young and virile boys ancient. It made summer seem like winter, and autumn spring.
To say the least, those fingers once created magic.
But not today. Today, those ten instances of perfection arising from a glorious imperfection were nothing more than a prop; a mere tool to satisfy the whimsy of an already whimsical man. An utterly despicable waste one might say.
And one would not be wrong.
“After all, genius is meant to be shared.
Or is it?
Does being a savant and a prodigy mean that you must expose yourself to the vagaries of prurient human curiosity and vulgarity, all in the interests of entertainment?
Or does it mean you get to sit in your mother’s basement and twiddle your thumbs; a dunce hat and a lab coat your only companions; the only aim in life being to entertain yourself?
Do you have a duty to mankind, or to yourself?”
He shrugged, then smiled imperceptibly in the darkness; a smile of resignation
He fingered the edge of the blade; running his fingertips over the serrations idly; lost in his own thoughts.
He picked up the knife.
Walked to the Steinway grand.
Took his seat.
Opened the lid.
Slit his wrists.
And proceeded to play.
Schubert’s Symphony No. 8 had never been left unfinished this fittingly.
