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“Why are you staring at my sons?” The question made me refocus on my interrogator.

“Before, you say because your son has gift, therefore I have to speak. What you mean?”

She replied, “My younger son’s presence makes it so that all must speak when asked a question, but my older son controls lies and truth.”

A proverbial light bulb clicked on my head. “You no answer me because it your want. You no choice but also speak.”

“If you do not cease, I will have my older son switch places with me. And you will find there is a difference from being compelled to speak and to having the truth forced out of you.”

“It only question and thought.” I chuckled, wondering if my own understanding of her words were flawed. “No deep meaning.”

Anger stained her face, but it was quickly replaced by indifference. How curious. “Then I will ask once more. What. Is. Your. Name?”

“I no remember.”

She glanced at her elder son—the short one—but when he did not move, her eyeballs zipped back to me. “Then why do you call yourself The Musician?”

“Because I know only music, therefore only music is mine.”

“Then prove it.” The rage returned to her. She must have thought if I was put on the spot in such a circumstance, I would falter.

I shook the chains binding my hands. “When hands like this, how I show you?”

She flicked her hand in a come-hither motion and the elder son came with a key. Without so much as brushing the air around my skin, he undid the chains and returned back to his previous position.

I stood up, slothfully grabbing and towing my violin case over, rubbing my wrists after it had been drawn near enough.

“I’m waiting.”

I would have to tune it first, but expressing the action was outside of my limited vocabulary. Instead, I flicked the iron clips and took out my bow, applying resin to its fine hairs. When satisfied, I picked up my dark brown instrument, the feel of Earthen wood against my fingers grounding me.

Placing it under my chin, I picked up my bow and tuned it as fast as humanly possible, praying it would for once obey.

About a minute or two into tuning, the woman said, “Is this the extent of your music?”

“Instrument need be ready. Now not ready. Must wait.” The words were almost torn out of my mouth.

She did not respond and I resumed the vital process, making sure every string was at a perfect pitch. My violin must have sensed its life was at risk because the pegs did not cause me as much suffering as it usually did. It was as she opened her mouth, likely to tell me to put it away, that I began.

Rather than any particular song, I thought taqsim was best. It was a style which had no set rhythm or tempo, just pure and unadulterated human emotion. My fingers and bow moved with erratic enthusiasm, the pitches high and low conjuring a sound like living fear and loss. It was as if I was casting a magic spell on myself. As long as all my feelings were released, apathy would safeguard me until the next time I picked up my violin.

The microsounds which surrounded me became my accompaniment: the swinging of the chains became the clinking of bells, the shallow breathing of the other occupants became faint flutes and the tapping of the woman’s fingers became a drum. In this moment, there was neither future nor past nor present.

I was the monster which crept into your heart, spiraling forth nightmare after nightmare. I was the secret you kept in the deepest part of your soul. I was the memory which tormented you long after your psychological scars faded.

The pressure on my bow and fingerings increased, creating a harsh shriek at odds with the controlled tempo of my heart. My mind was telling me to relax, to return to the state where I guided the music, but no matter how hard I tried the tension wouldn’t ease. So I rode it in the way a junkie rode a high and suddenly it wasn’t so guttural. Rather it was an echo of the chaotic unnamable sensations of my soul.

With a melody, it did not matter I was technically a slave and the audience my masters. For in this trance, the freedom I had lost had been returned. They did not merely see my pain, but felt it as if it was their own. It was not I who suffered, but rather them. They were the ones who lost what it meant to trust, to laugh and to weep.

And that control eased the tension in my muscles, changing angry sorrow into a beautiful revenge. My bow glided across the strings with familiar precision and equanimity. Even the tension of my grip loosened, creating the light and airy calm after the rain.

As my fingers danced, I was once more a human being and all the spectrum of emotions which defined us. Every scar and betrayal since arriving at this planet poured out. False kindness and empty pleas morphed into helplessness and unsatisfied rage. The scream which I could never utter with my voice, pouring out in meter and melody.

And then the trance ended. I was taking deep, shallow breaths and sweat had soaked through the back of the plain grey tunic I wore. Still, I glanced at my audience to find involuntary tears welling up in their eyes. An ideal moment to take a bow, so I did.

There were no words, no thank yous, nothing save for the prompt sound of the woman’s pen poking against the screen while she wrote. “You may take your seat. I have more questions.”

“Yes.” I wordlessly put away my bow and violin before snapping the case closed, placing it on my lap.