(Trigger Warning: Contains details of abuse/harassment)

Echoes of faint giggles flood the living room, a blurry haze of my father chasing after me, arms spread wide open, ready to embrace me when my small stubby legs decided to give up. My four-year-old self would run circles around the man, delusional enough to believe I had more strength and speed than he ever did. Each time, a rich, melodic tune would make its way through the house, his battered-up record player somehow managing to encapsulate each and every feeling of the moment. The violin was one of his favorite instruments; he’d always turn to me with a glint of awe in his eyes and say that music was there to convey feelings that our mouths couldn’t. From then on, it was the greatest thing in the world to me, simply because he was the greatest thing in the world to me. For my seventh birthday, my father gifted me a violin, an instrument which as soon as I lay hands on it, seemed like the one missing piece of my life’s puzzle had finally been found, one I never intended to let go of. I would run about with the hollow wooden appliance despite it being double my size, and each time the bow slid across its strings the world seemed to stop spinning, time ceasing as if the only two things existing were me and my instrument. My father and I would waltz to its tune in unison, just as we had my entire childhood.

As time passed, the sound of the tune slowly started to fade. My mother was a gorgeous, strong-willed woman, but ill for as long as I can remember. My father kept me away with his fantasies of music, dance and laughter, hoping to shield me from the unjust reality we had to live. One smile and he could make it seem as if every problem in the world had vanished just as quickly as it had come. One week in particular, she fell so sick even my father couldn’t keep up his grin, hospital visits becoming more frequent than ever. The year she passed felt like a fever dream, it was simply a fuzz of tears, the clinking of glass bottles, prayers and even more glass bottles. I urged my father it wouldn’t be good for him, but nothing I could say would change his mind. Each day he’d carry one more bottle than he had the day before, sipping them so often you would’ve expected them to be filled with water rather than the evil that lay inside. He would swallow until he transformed into a different person entirely, one with a nasty snarl and quick temper.

As things started to change, so did our relationship. His hands no longer embraced me the way in which they once did, instead they held a tight grasp around my body, squeezing me slowly until I’m unable to move. Instead of giggling all I did was shriek around him, his hand wrapped around my mouth so he would be the only one who heard me. I inhale shallow breaths as I grab my violin, brushing the bow against it to keep the sounds of whining protests from ringing through my mind, from the images forming of his smirk as I lay helpless. I move my hands even quicker to distract myself but instead see bright red fingerprints smeared across the fingerboard. I shut my eyes as tight as possible but still manage to feel the spot on my cheek he once pecked with a smile, a smile that faded soon after his stubble roughly grazed against it. I sink my teeth into my lips, trying to shake the filthy feeling caressing my entire body, as if my skin was a layer of clothing I simply needed to rip off. My mind wanders back to some of my fondest childhood memories, how he would run after me and I would be waiting for him to catch me, but now I’ve been left hoping I never get caught. The only source I’ve ever turned to as an escape has become my prison- I went from my daddy’s little girl to his little victim within a matter of seconds. I can’t take this anymore. Without a second thought, I bash my violin into the ground, fragments of wood flying around me as I do. I take a second before sinking into the ground, staring blankly at the shards dispersed- what have I done? Salty streams of liquid pour down my face and onto the shattered wooden surface, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I grab the one thing still intact- the bow, bringing it up to my throat. This violin, my one escape, my one love… has been poisoned by his memory.