I tried to picture the scene
before the chaos, before the badges
arrived, overworked yet steady,
before the media attention.
Her rosewood violin had not been
moved; it was secure in its case,
a priceless instrument of peace.
The space surrounding it was
pristine, but only past a few feet.
Anger brewed everywhere else,
crude nicks in the drywall,
every piece of furniture reduced
to nothing but tepid ashes,
scattered thoughtlessly like
day-old coffee grounds.
Hatred emptied out her aura.
The room felt heavier than death;
expired dreams and decaying fruits,
a plum and banana on her kitchen counter
rotten and rancid, ants pooling over the
remains of what used to be virtuous.
This was not just a murder,
but the end of an era.
There was nothing more solemn
than the absence of her fingers on the violin
in that lonesome apartment now riddled
with curiosity and strangers.
_
written from the prompt challenge in the main forum: violin, coffee grounds, plum
