Crimson

I pick up my violin

Around it's neck.

It's hung snug underneath my chin.

Out in the distance, there's not even a speck.

No movement. No whispers. Nothing.

Just me.

Take a deep breath, in and out.

Breathe-

SQUEAK

Then there's a SHRIEK

The audience begins to speak,

And all the debris begins to fall on me.

The chortles.

The scoffs.

The whispers.

"This isn't me,"

My vision turns dark and red,

I'm playing on broken strings.

Drip, drop. Drip, drop.

When can I leave?

My instrument is stained crimson;

It's forever discolored.

I look up and see the faces staring at me.

Pointing. Gasping. Shouting.

.......

Shouting? Running? Helping?

Helping me?

This isn't me