Mouthpiece Massacre at the Cemetery
Just a Poe-Esque short story that I wrote for some friends last month. Figured I'd upload it here. This is my first story, so comment freely.
Mouthpiece Massacre at the Cemetery
I pen this story not as a fantasy, although it may seem that way. I assure you that the following tale is as true as the fact that the sky is blue, or that blood is vermillion. I am not mad. Would a madman tell a story as cogently as this? Would a madman be so calm as to retell a story such as this with a level of calmness similar to this?
It was a fortnight ago. I returned to my domicile after a long rehearsal with the Symphony in which I sit Principal. Quite an accomplishment, considering I live and work in Vienna, and play with the Philharmonia there, but I digress. It was midnight, I remember, in mid-November, when I came home on the most peculiar of nights. You see, the Corno Secundo challenged my seat as Principal, and I lost my seat, while he took my seat at the topmost position in the entire Orchestra.
As we had been friends for nearly a decade prior to his advancement, my assurances against retribution were taken without doubt. Following rehearsal the following day, the two of us took a promenade in the nearby cemetery, where some of the most famous composers are buried; among them: Beethoven, Wagner, and soon, my dear friend.
As we walked deeper and deeper into the cemetery, my friend wanting to turn back, we reached the innermost, and most opulent, mausoleum of Gioachino Rossini, the composer of many an opera that we played together; I removed my favorite mouthpiece from my satchel, sharpened the previous night, and prepared to strike my friend from behind.
"I do so apologize for my advancement, but I don't believe your playing technique has improved over the last decade you've served as Principal," he said.
"I know. Your technical experiments were Sisyphean. For a long stretch, I felt that I could remain Principal without constantly seeking to improve. You were trying to do what was best for the Orchestra," I replied.
With this, I stabbed my friend in the neck, gouging his jugular vein and carotid artery simultaneously, releasing a fountain of blood into the freshly fallen November snow. After the deed was done, and he had stopped convulsing, I opened the door to the mausoleum of our favorite composer, and dragged his pallid corpse into the depths therein.