We all need a break sometimes
It’s day 52 of the lockdown and I think I may go mad. Mother insists that we use this time productively, but if I can’t escape this room, I may produce a murder!
Mother believes that artistic talents are complementary, that multiple disciplines reinforce creativity, that painting in an environment of music can enhance the canvas. She may even be right, but how would I know when I’m sharing a room with the goddess of discord?
Mother reads her erotic novels upstairs, sedated with sherry and far from the tortures of the music room. Why can’t I be free to pursue my muse? Why can’t I paint outside in the garden, or better yet, on a hillside far away? I need more social distance!
That insipid plinking! Will it go on forever? Or even longer? Those same repeating notes over and over and over again! Yet somehow she always manages to include the same mistakes in the same places. Oh, the soul-crushing agony of waiting for the same inevitable miscue! It's more maddening than waiting in the dark for the next plunk from a dripping faucet.
I certainly can’t paint, I can’t even think! Will she never stop?
Perhaps she’ll have to be stopped, if only to preserve my last remaining shred of sanity. The jeweled letter opener beckons from across the room, but blood stains so awfully. A pillow? No, the struggle would be most unladylike. Perhaps a stray twist of piano wire has been left behind by the tuner. Why, oh why, don't we keep poison in the house?
I really feel at my wits end. If I don't do something soon, I may do something soon!
There must be some way to relieve the pressure.
Perhaps Uncle Edvard has an idea!
Author's note: ▼