A queue gathers before a gloomy, gray-stoned hall as evening approaches. The massive doors creak open and groups of people, clothed in high-collars, shiny trinkets, and iron-set faces, march in. Their minds are fixed on one thing: acquiring it.
She sits in an airtight, bulletproof case, forever closely monitored. The violin’s life was beginning as a status symbol while it died off the stage. There are many indications of age on her timeworn surface. Dust has been embedded in the subtle notches and varnish has been rubbed off in places, however, the delicate craftsmanship remains visible. That makes sense, though, because she has traveled the world in the hands of many a grand musician.
The bidding begins. The man or woman with the most money will possess the priceless instrument. As the numbers rise, the bidder’s competitive nature becomes increasingly apparent. The violin and her beautiful voice are the last thing on their minds when an acquaintance raises the bid. The black flower of human nature is in full-bloom.
As the violin is carried away in the arms of her new owner – the last time she will ever be handled by him – she remembers the venues she has played at and the art she has performed. She sang with the great symphonies and whispered in dingy coffee shops. The man admires his prize now that she is propped in a new temperature-regulated box. Realization dawns upon her mournful eyes. She will be guarded from the one thing that has kept her alive for centuries: the human touch.
(Written for English class last year.)
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