Symphonic- W.i.p

Inside we're torn apart, but time will mend our hearts.

They listened as his fingers danced across the ivory and onyx keys, letting that slow melody settle across the auditorium before pausing, darkening the theme and souring the keys he tampered with. The sound was unnerving, reminiscent of that heard in the final moments of a dark operas finale.

No encore would endure, he let it all ride on this piece. Unnerving, low and rapid.

The mourning of a lost child

He could never forget the day they vanished, those brillant eyes which kept his company were gone as swiftly as they came. He knew where they were now, he passed them on the streets daily.

It wasn't him, it was a ghost of the child he loved and treated as his own. Even though they were close in age, that man was a child locked in a hell he couldn't control.

He never grew up, he merely learned to hide. He put his heart into bullets and let it be the death of those who stood in his way. He chased freedom like a rabid dog chasing after the unknown, pushed forth by a drive he couldn't control.

The tempo rose once more, hurried and afraid. The key was sharp, the octave high.

In the crowd was a man with an eye of violet and an eye of blue.

The song cut off, no resolution or relaxation of the hurried and fearful tone. The crowd was left on the edge of their seats as the man stood and bowed. They clapped, appeased by the song. All except one lone onlooker.

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