Chapters (54)
Wait—this wasn’t from a video game. What was this? A few started to laugh. Many scratched their heads. But a few of the judges sat upright. Yes, it was a deviation from the program. But it was no joke.
It was Bartók. Sonata for Solo Violin.
First Movement: Tempo di Ciaccona
Ciaccona, chacona, chaconne—a swirling, shifting dance, usually composed in triple meter. If this were Vivaldi, it would drip with sentiment and romance. If this were Handel, it would sing and sparkle with Heaven’s joy.
But this was Bartók.
There seemed no clear way to classify this. The violin spoke in such contradictory voices—with, without, against each other. Even the key seemed to morph between major, minor, and irrelevant.
Miss Satomi had warned her that listeners would find this confusing, alien, even incorrect. But for someone who had played her life in multiple parts, to similar reactions, this was music that Katrina knew was hers.
Might they think she was trans, queer, an abomination? Might they whisper she was ugly? Might they find her entrancing, exotic, grotesque, horrifying?
Might she not care? Because she played, Katrina began to realize that yes, she was staring into a wall of darkness. But didn’t that also mean the lights were on her? Didn’t that mean that the stage was hers?
And how was this different from doing webcams, when any these faceless viewers might log on one night and pay to see her cum?
The audience wanted transgender? They would get transgender. Or queer, or whatever else they wanted. But they would also get her.
And she was beautiful.
Listen to me. Listen to me now. For if this dogwood bow can force beauty upon you, then I shall shove every part of myself into that beauty. I shall make you feel all the joy, the terror in loving who you are.
The audience might have wanted to turn away, but the cursed bow rendered them helpless. Katrina played a love song smashed against a wall, a dream for a child left beaten in their bed.
As Aubergine wailed in Katrina’s hands, there was more shifting, more confusion, as the ciaccona held them, aroused them, touched their secrets, made them ache for the happy ending to come.
But instead, silence.
Because too many stories end unfinished.
Because that’s all that freaks like us get.
As the first movement ended, a few people faithfully applauded where they shouldn’t.
And with that mistaken applause, Katrina knew that her soul was forfeit.
Who would have thought one’s destiny could be sealed not by a parting of the sky, nor the horror of an infernal flame, but with awkward titters and shhh …
Well, at least no one was asking her to leave the stage. And if she were to be damned for all eternity, they could listen for another seventeen minutes.