Sasha In The Music Box
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Last night Sasha dreamt they lost their spirit again. In the material world, the warm fluttering of Sasha’s heart was ticking like a metronome. Sasha was in bed under layers of silk. On the dream plane, there was a war raging and Sasha fought harder and harder to prove it. There was a war of choruses, melodies, harmonies, refrains, and verses crumpling the ears of their composer. But the instruments didn’t have to be Sasha’s enemies. They trusted Sasha with their secrets, though they shouldn’t have; Sasha played them for the world. Every evening at sunfall, Sasha stood on the iron-lined balcony of their square green home and sent vibrations across the small town of Aurora. These twilight sonatas had been happening since Sasha learned to play their first instrument: the double-strung harp. Next, the cornet; then, the piccolo, viola, fortepiano, clarinet, and flute. Eventually, Sasha could play every instrument available at that time, by the age of 18.
“People trust me with their ears...they shouldn’t.”
The Aurorans, teased by their nocturnal repertoire with Sasha, demanded that Sasha come off the balcony and play in the streets. They wanted to meet and praise Sasha in the flesh, congratulate Sasha on freezing time. They knew nothing about Sasha. Was Sasha a boy or girl? How old? All they could discern from the balcony was the drapery of Sasha’s straight black hair and youthful movement. All they could discern from the house was that Sasha was probably very wealthy to afford living in such a decoration. They did not know the sound of Sasha’s voice; Sasha never sang.
“I will play until the notes suffocate my lungs.”
Every evening, like a cuckoo clock, Sasha would appear, automatic and pre-winded, performing out of their Music Box. Sasha’s songs would slither through the streets, slip gently into ears, and drift through open windows. Nothing was asked in return, and nothing was given when asked for more. Several times, brave fans would knock on Sasha’s door, but no one ever answered. They didn’t dare knock twice.
“I am a revolving metal comb, each tune rolled into one.”
On one wet and slippery night, Sasha played for the last and longest time. When the sun finally peeked out from under the horizon, Sasha stepped inside and closed the balcony doors. Never did Sasha come out again, though it was rumored that piano notes floated out the cracks from time to time.
“I am cold and automatic.”
The townspeople wanted to know why Sasha didn’t play anymore. What had gone down that night inside The Music Box? What is happening in there now, to their virtuoso? There was concern for Sasha’s wellbeing at first, and then anger. The Aurorans felt shamed, blasphemous, abandoned. Their messiah, rich and diverse in taste, had renounced them, and time had started to flow swiftly. Every evening began to look like the last, without Sasha’s songs to break the monotony.
“Sasha, why did you stop caring for your audience? We lived for you.”
It took about six months for enough townsfolk to gather and hope for a return, and plot when there was none. Eventually a plan formed to break into Sasha’s Music Box, to question and cry and empty their hearts for just a few more nights of song. On the driest night of the season, seven villagers approached the silent palace from the back, and cracked open a small white window. Each tumbled loudly inside, one after the other, in a crescendo sure to wake the dead. But Sasha did not appear, with candle or musket in hand. Instead, they found an oddly reflective scene; almost everything was constructed from tin. The ceiling and floors were warped mirrors, the furniture was shiny with lumps. Their whispers unraveled back to them hard and smooth. The glossy tin seemed the farthest texture from the warming timbre of Sasha’s notes.
“I am a chime in the wind. The music trusts me with its secrets, yet has no say in how I play them.”
All the bedrooms were empty; the kitchen was rampant with rats. The whistle of silence through the halls was slightly out of tune. Yes, they searched The Music Box from top to bottom and found several curious scenes, but not one sign of an instrument or their beloved maestro. It is true that an old wooden doll, a human automata was noticed by a particularly distraught search party member. It was shoved into a closet carelessly, in the empty room that housed their beloved balcony. But the member said nothing, perfectly distraught, for it was half rotten, the long black hair clumped, with multiple fingers and teeth missing. It couldn’t have been Sasha. And it’s true, it never was.
“People trust me with their ears...they shouldn’t. The instruments have no choice in who makes them.”