The low G echoed through the white washed room. The followed notes jumping off the empty bookshelves, the bedside table, the window seat, the vanity press and finally the queen size bed. Beyond the echoes of the grand piano suavely playing the Moonlight Sonata, was the accompaniment of a low soft humming of a man. The tall figure stood beside the bed, his back and broad shoulders straight with discipline, his eyes closed and a look of relaxation imprinted on his face as he followed the continuous notes and directed his invisible orchestra with the scalpel in his left hand. He was preparing himself by clearing his mind and blocking out all of the worldly sounds of bird singing, cars passing by, the clock ticking and the muffled screams of anguish until all he could hear was the pulsing beat of his own heart in his ears and Beethoven’s music.
And, as he bent down and hovered above the naked outstretched body on the white sheet-less mattress, he smiled quietly at the thought that Beethoven had written the song as a proclamation of his love for his fiancée. For now, as he stood there, ready for the kill, he could understand exactly the fullness of spirit that the great composer must have felt the day he wrote the sonata. As he sunk the scalpel into the rosy flesh right beneath the sternum and began the incision down to the navel and onto the pelvis, he too felt complete. He felt the world engulf him with love and attention as he took care only to cut the abdominal muscles and not penetrate the organs hiding below, waiting for him to find them. With every inch he cut and every fresh gush of blood, his heart would pound faster. It seemed to fill up with the flowing blood and become fuller and fuller until it could no more and would burst right through his ribs and lie spastically on the floor.
Two hours later and twenty replays of the moonlight sonata, the figure stood by the window. His gaze was fixed on the sun, the sharp rays not affecting his cat-like green eyes....