The loss of imagination is a fearful thing, and his was complete. He could stare at the sky for hours, looking up at the clouds with a strong singularity of purpose and only see shapeless white blobs; Rorschach inkblots were the same, only their colors were inverted. He was so much without imagination that he couldn't even remember the last time he'd had a dream.
He was a composer once, of certain celebrity. He had sold out packed symphony halls, in Europe and thoughout the Americas, Africa and the United Kingdom too, full of clamoring crowds wanting only to feel his genius touch itself against their ears. He was lauded by all of the important art critics - the ones that mattered, anyway - and praised by fans across the globe, untouchable to his contemporaries. But that was then. Some misfortune had befallen him which led to an artistic impasse of sorts.
Like it were written in a book, her name was Melody.
As if often the case in any story pertaining to matters of the heart, she started as a muse. His music had flourished when first they met, taking bold chances and experimenting with prototype instruments based off of blueprints drafted by Da Vinci; grandiose swelling crescendos would on a moment's notice transform into the musical equivalent of snow; subtle twinkling sounds raining down on rapt audiences like confetti. He collected young, unknown musicians with passion enough to rival the most esteemed and celebrated virtuosos of his time, and he awakened greatness in them. One such example was a young pianist by the name of Veronica Montepulciano, who was rumored to have played Brahms No.1 in D minor at the age of 5. She was a captivating performer with dark chestnut hair, always dressed in a deep red dress cut at the thigh, stomping and rocking madly from her chair; the muscles in her legs rippling and on display while frightful fits of passion from her fingers thundered against the black and white keys.
It might have been the ardor he was able to extract from her that made Melody envious. Though there was no romantic relation between he and the Italian pianist, Melody began to suspect the girl - who was ten years younger than she was - to be a seductress. The idea had been implanted largely in part by Melody's sister, Rhian, who would attend the shows with her. Seating there in the seats as the lights dimmed, in hushed hurried whispers Rhian would say things like: Just look at the dress on her; watch how she writhes to and fro; how she stares at him as she waits for his cue. It was only a matter of time before Melody was made sick with jealousy.
It was on a dark September night, during a celebration where he was to be recognized with the highest accolades ever awarded to a composer, that Melody did something dreadful and cruel.
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Ok this is dull. Talk about unimaginative.
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