A Work of Fiction

Read it, and then tell me you think it sucks. Because it does.

August 13, 1760

Lezajsk, Poland

Born into a musical family, I experimented with a number of instruments from an early age. My father, organist  at a local church, taught me the violin and harpsichord, the latter of which I became proficient in a few short years. I spent hours mastering my instruments, who seemed to share a mutual affection with me.  My early life was filled with the joy of family and music. How powerful the combination of the two had been!

My love for my instrument grew exponentially, my father lending his support to my talent.  At ten, I was performing recitals at the monastery. By the age of thirteen, I had begun composing my earliest works, and although sonorously crude, they were a clear indication of my innate musical ability.

On one humid August morning I found my brother sitting at the family clavichord. Through some brief bickering I learned he was composing a piece to be played at our late Uncle's funeral. What a marvelous idea! I immediately requested he forfeit his desire to me, for I knew my music would be more well received at the event. He quickly retaliated, claiming his superior age and musical intellect would produce a more refined work. Deviously, I left him to his music.

Unbeknownst to my brother, I consolidated with my mother, ensuring I had an opportunity to play at the funeral. In a matter of days, I composed a Fantasia so moving I could hardly believe what I had wrought. At the funeral, I stood next to my brother as he played, observing the crowd. A solid performance flowed from his fingers, but I was sure to outperform my sibling, despite my disadvantage.

I sat at the church's clavichord, set up my music, and began to play my work. My theme erupted into the room with unprecedented emotion;  my melody banished all the grievances of my Uncle's beloved. As I played, my technique became more and more powerful, and with it, my work began to transform itself from a mere Fantasia into an unrelenting barrage of uplifting joy and happiness. I finished the piece with an astonishing amount of dissonance, easing my audience back into their previous emotional state, which they could not escape following the conclusion of my performance.

That night, I saw the jealously in my brother's eyes. He failed to surpass his adolescent brother at the keyboard! How embarrassed must he have been at his failure. As the years passed, and I continued to outdo my senior brother again and again, I never saw anger in his face - only a burning desire for vengeance.

As I matured, so did my works. I spent my days at my harpsichord, composing hours upon hours of wonderful music, dedicated to my mother, my father, my school, and the church. Soon, none in my village could match my ability at the key, not even my father.

I could out key my father on any instrument, and mass at church clearly preferred my organ performance to my his. One individual once told me how my music had uplifted him so much on a particular Sunday that he became so motivated as to ask his girlfriend of many years to marry him! I took pride in my accomplishments and imagined what others had found in that morning's performance. My father did not appreciate my talent so greatly when the church offered me a full-time job composing and reciting music for Sundays. He began to avoid me, and our relationship deteriorated quickly.

Following advice I received from a priest, I tried speaking to my beloved father, but he refused to listen to what I had to say and retorted with disdain. Though I had decided not to take his job, his pride was hurt regardless. I was ashamed of the embarrassment I caused the man. As months past, I was forced to watch his health decline as my prestige as an organist exploded.

On December 12, 1754, my father passed away. My undying concentration into my music and dedication to my ability had caused my father so much envy that he could no longer bear to see what he had created. Why must he have been such a jealous being? The man to whom I owed the credit of my greatest accomplishments had only his death to thank me for. I had no desire to hurt my family. Instead, I managed to tear it apart doing what I loved.

The rest of my family rejected the idea that I had caused my father's death, that is, aside from my brother. Every day, he made it his mission to remind me of the grief I caused our father. Sadly, I had no option but to agree with my brother. He was right! I had caused my father's death. I was slung into a deep depression. I had disgraced my family. There was only one option for me - to run. One particularly warm evening I left my home and traveled in a southerly direction

After a weeklong journey, which I made only by the grace of God, I arrived in a northern German city. I found myself a job as organist of a new church. My first fugues were filled with misery, straight from my heart. But gradually, my condition improved. In time, I was able to compose the most joyful music that church had ever seen. The halls of the church seemed to glow as I played. In a matter of months, my name spread through the city. Within a year of my arrival in the city, masses of people from around the countryside came to my church to listen to my music. They would listen for hours as I improvised on the organ.

One afternoon I brought a woman home who I had met in through a mutual acquaintance. Her beauty stunned those around her, leaving only the strongest willed men with their wits about them. How I had managed to ask her home, I do not know. But fate would have her vibrant glow in my room. Her golden complexion gave inspiration to a new melody, and as she sat and admired my talents, a fugue was born. I decided to give it her name - and so it was known as "Aurelia."

I never failed to find inspiration for my music in the intimate moments we spent together; each melody borrowed the emotion of a moment and forged it into a tangible idea. Each musical idea spawned from our connection offered a new brightness to my musical repertoire. Hundreds packed into my church to hear the wonderful sounds of Aurelia's soul. My name continued to spread across the countryside.

After a particularly jubilant performance, I was able to meet my brother's acquaintance. I shook his hand, and a certain darkness fell over me. Resisting an urge to write an evil melody running through my head, I asked what brought him to my church. According to him, the word of my performances had reached Poland, and so he made pilgrimage to see what had become of his long disappeared brother. After he recited mother's regards, I invited him to my home for dinner.

That evening I brought my brother home, where my Aurelia had already prepared a hearty dinner. We feasted and shared many laughs about the past.

Shortly after I left, my brother managed to secure my father's old post at his church. He told me he much enjoyed his work, and the people, as they had done for me, flocked from around the country to hear his works. I was a bit skeptical of his claim, as I knew my brother never shared the same ability as me. When we finished eating, I showed him to my harpsichord. He played splendidly, his dark melodies sent shivers down my back. After concluding with an interesting trill authentic cadence, he stood and I took a seat at the instrument

I improvised a fugue around the melody which ran through my head earlier that day. The evil tones of my counterpoint darkened the corners of the room. As I reached the climax of the piece, I inverted the subject, and it grew darker still. Clouds covered the outside moon as I entered the final few measures - and I decided, ironically, to end the bit on a Picardy third. I turned to my brother, expecting to see a look of humor on his face. My smile was immediately neutralized by the jealousy in my brother's eyes. But it had been so many years! How could he still feel this way of my talents?

With grunt, my brother said his peace with Aurelia and me, then vehemently left my home.

Later that night, my dearest Aurelia asked me about the relationship I had with my brother. I finally told her the story of my childhood, and she was disgusted. On that night, and for many weeks afterward, I slept alone.

My Toccatas and Fantasias lost their jubilant qualities. Every note I played was a dismal representation of what happened to my relationship with my Aurelia. Though my crowds had not waned, I could not stand the darkness I had brought to my church. My happy disposition left with the brightness of my performances.

One night Aurelia and I shared a volatile argument. Back and forth it raged, my anger pulsing, fueled by the tears in her eyes. She screamed her nonsense at me. I soundly defeated her foolish logic, but she continued to prod at my heart. I had to restrain myself from violence when she mentioned how selfish I had been to run from my family. How dare she mention such a sensitive subject at such a moment. I cursed her, and she ran from my home.

Immediately suspicious of her activities, I threw on my night coat and left in her wake. I was careful not to be spotted by my betrothed as she journeyed towards the edge of the forest.

I hastened my steps as I fell behind, and tripped. I landed with a thud and a grunt, quickly returned to my feet, and dove behind a thick tree.

For a moment I was sure she had noticed me, but she soon turned away and gave attention to something else. How stealthy I was! The elation of my ability to elude Aurelia vanished as I realized who she was meeting: my brother!

Oh, how he had succeeded at causing me to feel his jealousy! Now I knew how he felt at the conclusion of every one of my ever-so-bright recitals. I had become so yellow at this sight and feeling that I turned and vomited behind the trunk of the tree I was perched behind. Aurelia jumped at the sound, and my brother turned. He walked feverously in my direction.

How foolish of me to have ruined my cover! I was better than this! I was paralyzed with panic and anger, unsure of what my next step would be. Should I run? No, what a foolish act to consider. Would he be sane enough to speak to? Not worth the risk, should he turn violent. I poked my head out from behind my cover to see the nearing footsteps - and there he was. I was brought to my feet by some force unknown to me, and knocked back to the ground. In an instant, my brother was on top of me. Instinctively I reached to stop his hand as it plunged toward me. I cut my hand on a blade in the process, but saved my heart from his cold steel.

Struggling, I fought back. It seemed the same power which granted me music superiority to my brother gave me power in this fight, and in an instant I had managed to take his weapon and pin him upon the ground.

I thought of Aurelia. How beautiful she was, the music she made. The masses came from far and wide to hear the sounds of her soul, and that soul... that soul was mine! The moments we spent together were nothing but in vain. And who had taken this from me? My brother!

Anger surged through my veins. Unprecedented strength forced my brother's blade into his throat. He squirmed beneath, his warm blood pouring onto my hands. As he choked his death, I found joy in the fact that would have never assumed his plan might turn out this way! My Aurelia screamed, and as her glowing aura neared, I had realized what I had done. My brother, dead at my hands! I could not return to town. My life as I knew it was over!

I felt a burning hatred to my Aurelia. Her incompetence caused this. She was the only one to blame for this death! As my anger welled, I began to feel lose consciousness. The death of my brother by my most beloved was too much to handle.

I fell into a deep darkness. As I fell, I could hear the culmination of all my year's work. How the melody soothed me so, took me from this place of grief and despair, and accompanied me into a place of happiness, joy, and jubilance.