WHO: Xantippe, Roma, and anyone else who wants to join. WHAT: Concerto in the bathroom.
It was a little feeling, like butterflies in the stomach or a twitch of the finger. Only ... not. Because it wasn't tangible, it was nothing really seen or felt. More like an urge, a primal instinct, telling Xantippe to go. So she did. Hoisting the battered violin case she'd dragged from Boston, she began her search.
She needed a play to play. Somewhere where she could feel comfortable and protected in this hell she'd once thought of as Safe Haven. Somewhere where no one would look at her and judge. Somewhere with good acoustics. The bathroom.
When she was younger she'd lain awake, listening to music smuggled into her bed, one ear pressed to the speaker. All night she'd sit, forgoing sleep for something far more vital to her growing brain. Music. As she fell into the swelling chords, the simple arpeggios, she would imagine herself taking the reigns, driving the music where she wanted it to go. Now, back in the Dollhouse, she felt like that lost little girl again, trying to regain control of something far greater than herself.
How long had it been since she's picked up a bow? One year, five, she couldn't remember. The notes were clumsy at first as they spilled squeakily from her violin, though the emotion was still perfectly clear. Soon though, as muscles warmed to the near-forgotten memories, the music came, smooth as cream. Bach's Chaconne - it'd taken her years to master. Not that anyone every truly mastered art. She felt every fiber of her being quiver with the vibrato. Everything was periphery.