Sonata (Butcher and Violinist 2)

Shalimar had been in the drawer this week, zipped up in a bag.

I’d pulled her out some nights, drinking whiskey, gin, and whatever else I could find. I’d stared at her graying, rotting flesh and cried. I took another swig, told her sorry, zipped her up, put her back in the case, to only do it all over again another night.

I sat between mourning Shalimar and finding relief that her death had saved me from my obsession. I wouldn’t have gotten over her.

I may never get over you.

The morning of the funeral, I woke up hung over. Today I would bury her, and the cracked, black pieces of my heart, would sit in Shalimar’s casket. It would be buried with her. It would forever stay there.

You might as well keep it now. I didn’t really want you to give it back anyway.

I showered and prepared the proper ceremony of saying goodbye.

That morning of Shalimar’s funeral, I did what my grandmother had done the day my father died. She would leave an open jar of honey by his body, as it lay on a wooden table surrounded my herbs and flowers. She’d wanted the honey to attract flies, which she believed held the souls of the deceased. Somehow honey connected the soul with other souls.

You’re still beautiful to me.

I’d pulled her out and placed her on the table.

Shalimar’s dead body lay on the metal table in my pain room. Death draped her cold, stiff body like a restricting gown. Tightly bound. Laced up. Red as the dirtiest blood. Pale as a howling wolf’s full moon. Death froze her beauty into a statue that would haunt me for the rest of my life.

The next hours I did my duties. I surrounded her with roses and jars of honey. I opened the doors and windows in the apartment to let the flies come. And I played that song that she always used to hum.

I thought back to one moment in Belladonna, when I held her in my arms, after just making love.

She’d been humming.

“What’s that?” I asked.

Shalimar rested her head against my chest. “What’s what?”

“The song you keep humming.”

“Unchained Melody.” She hummed it again.

“I remember that song. I’ve heard it, before in a…” I tried to rack my brain. “A movie or—”

“Everywhere.” She rose from the bed.

“Come back over here.”

“No.” She pulled her phone out. “I want to play it for you.”

I grinned. “Okay. I’ll allow it.”

She shook her head and typed into her phone.

Minutes later the song filled the air, and she returned back to my arms. That day we played the song over and over. We listened to those sweet notes—especially the violin. How beautiful the male lover crooned and belted about his one and only.

That had been one of the most peaceful and loving days of my life.

After all the money, power, and even fame. That moment, with her in my arms, with that song filing the air, mingling with the scent of our sex.

That had been heaven.

So this morning, I played that song for her.

It was our goodbye.

My speakers blasted, Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers.

For the first time, I could relate to the song more than ever before. Sure, it was mushy. It was cheesy, but it was all true.

The man belted out the ballad, full of emotional lyrics over an epic orchestra. He swooned into crescendo. There was real, undeniable hunger in the singer’s voice. There was a rawness of a man that knew heartbreak but would still love again. There were layers upon layers.

I played it over and over, hearing the song different with each turn.

Swarms of flies entered the house. They skittered over the roses and Shalimar’s graying body and the music rising in the cottage.

Goodbye. I hope you have more joy wherever you go.

I leaned against the wall and had whiskey for breakfast.

Giorgio came on the twentieth time of playing the song. By then the bottle was halfway gone. He took a swig of the bottle and helped me get Shalimar together.

And the day begins.

A few hours later, the church ceremony began. It had been closed casket. Not many knew Shalimar. They’d come for me. But even if they did know her, that wasn’t the way I wanted everyone to see her for the last time—cut, battered, and bruised.

They’d wanted me to say something at the ceremony. Jean-Pierre thought it would be good to get everything off my chest. I didn’t agree. We didn’t have enough days for me to talk about it all. The stupidity. The fucked-up parts. It was better to leave everything unsaid and move on.

I never spoke.

Eden did. It was sad. I couldn’t listen. So beautiful, but heart aching.

I left the church.

Jean-Pierre followed and met me outside.

We stood on the steps. Silent. The breeze blowing. And then I put on my mask just as the tears came down.