Passion makes me sick. The sight of that fire in a person’s eyes makes my stomach begin to burn. The sound of their voice as they vocalize their feelings forces the bile up and as that pure smile stretches across their quivering lips I have to force it down. I clinch fists until their white but no crescent moons adorn where nails should have pressed down – they’re all bitten down to the fleshy nubs. The neck of my violin wants to snap against the pressure, the hairs of my bow seem to curl from the steam. Anger swirls around me and I just want to hurt – them.

I channel my hatred and it’s misconstrued as passion. The very vibrations within me move through my fingers in a tantalizing vibrato. The jerky pull of my arms ends in a fierce staccato. Reddened fingers pluck out a perfected rage.

They open their mouths and ask questions but my mouth is calked shut so as not to allow the burning passage. My throat is tight it keeps it down. It, though I ate nothing – I never do before these things – as it makes the struggle that much easier.

I must be a masochist to not wring my own neck. I must be a masochist to not wring theirs.

My fingers flex again bringing my bow to my side. The violin held by the neck, that long neck I want to just wrap my hands around the neck and squeeze until life is gone and – I tuck it beside my elbow as I bow.

There is no sheet music to gather. The black stand is spread with the sight reading only. My own audition piece is burned into, not my mind, but my fingers. I walk out and cross the hall where I see her waiting with such a hopeful face. My tightly set mouth seems to twitch upwards in that semblance of a reassuring smile. She sighs in relief, a motion I cannot yet duplicate.

My body moves and the case is open and I must be unaware of the heady intoxicating smell of rosin as it hits me. Violin wiped with the cloth, shoulder rest removed, bow loosened and slid into the holster, I close away my life.

I step back, even more so a shell. I sling the container to my soul over my shoulder. The weight is unnoticed on my back. I cross the florescent lit halls towards the rickety desk near the entrance.

“Oh Sehun?”

My eyes break away from the haze of everything, focusing finally. I blink and my lips, readying myself to use my voice.

Before me is a bored looking student, not much older than me, but I can tell she’s appraising me. She glances at the fingers holding the violin strap running across my chest. My fingers disappear into my sleeve wanting to hide.

“Results will be sent within a month. If you don’t hear anything assume the worst.”

My mother replies and hands in my audition number but of course I hear nothing as finally I stride through the double doors to go outside. My fingers flex, falling against the strap of the case in what I realize must be the pattern of the E minor scale.

My name is Oh Sehun, 17. Born, April 12. Specialty, violin. I live and breathe through my violin. I have no memory of life without my violin. I have become my violin.

I hate my violin.

I hate me.

............................... to be continued........................

AN : Hello everyone! My first try at not writing Taoris! Wow. Sorry if Sehun is way too OOC. I am getting my friend who is such a big EXO fan to help me with the characterization but she can't help me with everything obviously. ;~; I got the title from a famous classical piece.