Mahler's Ninth

Mahler's Ninth
by Jennifer P.

Posted by Shadows and Dust on behalf of Jenn.

He sat alone in the tiny, darkened garret, alone save an ancient, dusty trunk. An old trunk and so very many memories. The clasps were rusted and stiff, but he managed to crack the lid, after some effort, then sat motionless, afraid to open it any farther. He was loath to disturb something within, something which he would rather lay still and undisturbed as it had for so many years. Secrets? Perhaps. The trunk rested, still and silent, though he watched it steadily as if were a live thing. Finally, he opened it and the air became charged with a thousand specters of things long past, dead and buried long ago.

There was a moment’s pause, then he began tearing through the items in the trunk, tossing them right and left, or into the small brazier that sat as his feet—a futile means to stave off the bitter cold which enveloped him and the little room. Dissatisfied with life, with death, and with everything. He tore through letters, dried flowers from a long-forgotten party, concert programs, souvenirs…vestiges of his life before all had gone bitterly wrong. Nothing would remain! That life was gone, and he determinedly burned everything that brought back those times.

Suddenly, in the midst of his rampage upon the past, a photograph caught his eye. He paused, and picked it up by the cracked and faded edge. Now, new memories came flooding back, of someone he had long ago forgotten. Cherished beyond words, she had been, now lost forever. He sat with the photograph in his limp fingers, allowing the images and feelings from the past wash over him. He remembered her dancing, gracefully floating across the floor, so very like the cloud the poets spoke of. He remembered her smiling at him, sweetly yet sad. There had always been that wall between them, a part of him he was never able to communicate to her, and it was his music. There was a place she never saw into, a small wedge in his mind that eventually drove them apart. However, that was all later. There was a time when that didn’t matter. A time when they sat and talked, or simply sat and listened, to his playing, to her singing. He drifted slowly among pictures of her folding her hands in her lap when he began a lecture, or of her stamping her little foot in frustration with his oddities and habits.

Of course, those were the good times, he though. His inability to communicate, her inability to understand were more than could be overcome. He pictured her one last time, saddened but angry, standing in the doorway. Then, she was gone. He slammed the lid of the of the trunk shut with vehemence, tossing the photograph into the fire and watching the edges curl up agonizingly, tortured. He stared, broodingly, into the flame, then began throwing the remaining items after it in rapid succession. There was nothing left to remember. There was nothing left to do. He stood and left, leaving the room dark, and colder than it had been before.