#cyprien

He was nervous, violin and bow clutched to his chest as he stared out at the bright lights of the stage. This would be his first performance. He needed to make this memorable.

"It's a shame what happened to your brother," the voice of one of his parents mourned behind him. The boy turned his head to look up at them both. His father's arm circled behind his mother's shoulders, keeping them close against his side. They looked like the picture of loving, supportive parents. His father with his golden mane and his mother with locks like fire in the darkness.

"It had to be done," his father's deep voice rumbled in the space between them like a note plucked on a bass. His hand rubbed at the arm of the much smaller body against him. There there dear, it seemed to say, although his expression remained muted and stony.

"This is your chance to be whatever you want to be," his mother's voice was softer, higher, kind and gentle like sunlight through forest trees. It warmed the heart and soul. Mother's eyes were bright like stars shining through curtains of crimson. There was expectation and love in that expression. No matter what you become, it will be accepted by this world, it said. He wasn't so sure. From what he remembered of his older brother's experiences, this world was cold and unforgiving, and the people in it were even worse.

"It's time," his father called, the lights of the stage turned towards the side the trio stood, waiting for the next act to cross into the limelight. He turned to stare at the spotlights, apprehension making its home in his chest like a tightening knot over his heart. There was no more time for hesitation.

The boy strode across the stage, stopping at his mark and turning to the audience. The brightness of the light didn't hide the stares of numerous eyes on him. The mechanical click click click of something turned sounded in unison as some of them turned their sights on the presentation of the boy on stage. Others were perfectly able to lift their flesh and blood chins to gaze upon the new violinist. Stolen, the boy thought to himself.

This was an audience of his father's making, mechanical and living dolls, bodies, souls, and replications all of his making. Every seat was filled and the discarded remains littered the walkway like a river of blood and viscera. What was hidden beyond the walls of the theatre? Were the screams from beyond the walls the screams of the damned coming for him or for his father?

The boy's eyes closed, violin lofted against his left shoulder, and bow placed above the strings. All of the sounds went still as he set himself into position, lights lowering as his bow rested against one of the strings.

"Not that song," his mother spoke quickly in a hushed warning. "That doesn't answer your call anymore."

The boy pursed his lips. He knew it to be true. Gone were the days of the song that drove men to a mutated doom. Changing strings, he drew the bow over the new string, drawing out a note that began a new song. The world of the stage, the audience, and his parents fell away as the new song filled the hall like water in a sinking ship.