KORBIN
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
To make you bow and spit it out?
The door was open. Korbin was in the middle of the process of cleaning out the perishables from the kitchen when the banging started on the entrance. As he heard it open, Korbin began to set aside what he had in his hands, and headed for the door. But the visitor was gone by the time he got there, and he was left to stare numbly at the gift.
Slowly, Korbin reached down to pick up the note. His insides turned cold as he read it. Then hot. Then cold again. He flipped the note over, looking for a sender, but found none.
Carefully, he picked up the drum. Turned it between his hands, examining every inch. There were no telltale signs of who the maker was. A hobby craft, perhaps, or some new talent. His throat tightening, he carried it over to a table and set the instrument down. Touched the tightened membrane with light fingertips - that alone was enough to send reverberations through the wood, resonating like a hiss of breath, a sigh, the beginning of a note humming in the air.
How cruel. To leave something like this for him here. As a reminder of what could never be. Did the sender know that he used to make music? Did they know that Weaver once offered him a place here, to play while she served drinks, to live his life alongside hers - not exactly like they had been, but still together? How unspeakably cruel, to throw this in his face. As if he didn't regret rejecting that offer every waking moment.
A girl had played violin in the bar the other night while he served drinks, and Korbin had almost wept at the irony of the reversed roles. How it was almost right but too wrong to ever be funny.
His hands tightened around the drum. A wild impulse rose up in him to hurl it against the wall, smash it to pieces in incandescent rage. But instead, he very carefully brought the drum back behind the bar, and placed it on one of the shelves, amidst the flasks.
If Weaver had ordered it made, he would not destroy it. But he would never touch it again either.
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- Fin
Slowly, Korbin reached down to pick up the note. His insides turned cold as he read it. Then hot. Then cold again. He flipped the note over, looking for a sender, but found none.
Carefully, he picked up the drum. Turned it between his hands, examining every inch. There were no telltale signs of who the maker was. A hobby craft, perhaps, or some new talent. His throat tightening, he carried it over to a table and set the instrument down. Touched the tightened membrane with light fingertips - that alone was enough to send reverberations through the wood, resonating like a hiss of breath, a sigh, the beginning of a note humming in the air.
How cruel. To leave something like this for him here. As a reminder of what could never be. Did the sender know that he used to make music? Did they know that Weaver once offered him a place here, to play while she served drinks, to live his life alongside hers - not exactly like they had been, but still together? How unspeakably cruel, to throw this in his face. As if he didn't regret rejecting that offer every waking moment.
A girl had played violin in the bar the other night while he served drinks, and Korbin had almost wept at the irony of the reversed roles. How it was almost right but too wrong to ever be funny.
His hands tightened around the drum. A wild impulse rose up in him to hurl it against the wall, smash it to pieces in incandescent rage. But instead, he very carefully brought the drum back behind the bar, and placed it on one of the shelves, amidst the flasks.
If Weaver had ordered it made, he would not destroy it. But he would never touch it again either.
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- Fin
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Nothing makes you turn around
