Memento Mori - A Sinners Story

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story about love, fear and the power that those things have over us.

Submitted: August 02, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 02, 2011




Memento Mori - A Sinners Story


‘Why don’t you play for me?’  The words cut through thick air like iced blades. He didn’t look up. He didn’t care; the sun was burning around him, dragging him down. His hand trembled. He couldn’t play. Every day he repeated the same routine; seemingly living without any purpose.

Time passed without mercy. Mistakes could not be forgiven.

No, Sinners didn’t play.


‘Why won’t you play for me?’

 Nothing changed.

‘Why won’t you play for me?’

Why, why, why.

He looked up at the woman standing in front of him, eying him, and inspecting his trembling hands.

Just a whisper, just a word.


The weather had changed, but nobody noticed. A chilled wind was messing up the stranger’s hair. Light had painted everything in a cold blue colour.  He didn’t move. He couldn’t escape her daring look. The green eyes fixated on his face. A burning, passionate stare, which started to fade as the musician, hesitated. Carefully he put the bow on the strings, bringing out one sensitive tone, slow, engaging.

The face of the unknown woman stared down at him, smiling.

Sinners mustn’t play.

His thoughts rushed; everything brightened, evolved, faster, louder. The bow touched the strings like a feather that carried by the wind, touches floating water, scared. Another tone escaped from his violin, another sensitive scream of painful redemption. Finally he got the woman’s attention; he switched the mood, playing faster, louder. He saw the fire starting in her eyes, the interest increasing. He played for her.


Time passed with its hysterical rush. He was a musician, a master of his art. He played just for her. She understood and loved like an innocent child without any prejudice.  He composed beauty for her.


Right up to the point where, he imagined himself, being no more but the sin’s he committed.What a delusion of the human mind.


He was unable to escape, unable to resist the powerful grip of a written note. They filled his head, moved his hands. But with every ink-drop, he got scared. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. He trembled every time he picked up the bow, terrified of every sound, every tiny squeak that could give away his past.  She came frequently and he loved her, worshipped her but he died countless times;

 He created a melody for her: a melody of satanic beauty, never to be forgotten when once heard. Cruel tones left the violin and could never be taken back.  No matter how long she stayed, she couldn’t make him see the beauty he created. He was trapped in his own head, crushed by something that once had inspired him. He wanted to please her; he wanted to make a piece that would be worth her existence. But what he heard was the demonic sound of his cursed sins. 

Sinners should not play.


Even the weather was mocking him. Leaving every thing in dark colours, letting the wind howl painful screams under his window, as if to remind him, what he was doing, as if to show him that there was no escape, no redemption. The Sun had lost its heat and was just a bleak spot one could barely make out in the sky. With the wind came the cold, cutting and grasping. 


The sun sat and rose over and over again, but he only counted the days she visited him.


He stroked the sheet music with a trembling hand. A masterpiece truly, but a deadly one, a terrible one. No such music could ever be played, this was just a record of the black heart he believed to have. His hand shook as he slowly crushed the paper, dropping it into the lustfully grabbing flames. He felt the burn, but there was no pain as the warm light embraced his existence. The last desperate gasp of life left his lungs.  He watched the woman standing next to the fire, looking at him with eyes, drowned in infinite sadness. He saw her lips moving. A silent whisper. Such cruel words separating them forever. Yet spoken with such love and regret.


‘You’re free. Farewell. ’


The human being is mortal. And he always dies unexpectedly.


The sun was bright, but not uncomfortably hot, since a pleasant wind was accompanied the woman, as if pushing her in one direction. Dragging her towards the light, drying the tears on her face. She clenched to paper as she walking through the park.  Her breath was still hectic; her eyes still red from crying. No one saw, no one noticed. Carefully touching the burned edges, she opened the sheet music, stroking the written lines with a loving smile on her lips; a slow harmony escaped her tongue.



The Sinner never played.

© Copyright 2018 CathKor. All rights reserved.

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