A Sweet Melody

• Salma Zarook, Grade 11, Marian College
• Short Story
• 2011

1st in the 'Step Write Up 2011' competition

The night is quiet as I scamper across the roofs of buildings until I reach my sanctuary. It is grand and magnificent, so much so that I feel inadequate in comparison. I snuggle against the familiar cool metal of the ventilation shaft, and rub my arms for warmth. I’m covered in dirty rags and reek of the mothballs from the homeless shelter but tonight I have the best seat.
A hushed silence falls and the theatre pauses as if taking a composed breath to calm the nerves before the performance. I begin to worry that I will be caught but before my thoughts get any further; the soothing melody of a cello pushes all thought swiftly out of my head.
A voice joins the instrument, strong and sweet making me think of honey – the thick and musty kind where the sweetness is ever-present. The voice sings of a bittersweet sorrow I can understand. And then another voice joins the first, thin and delicate like fine silk, adding a touch of hope to the melody. Their voices rise to me in beautiful harmony, wrapping me with the warmth of a mothers touch.
My heart yearned for what I could hear, feel and almost touch. Fingering the work of the piano, I wished to drown out the stars with my own music.
A sudden rush of footsteps tramples on my dreamlike state and I am awoken to the reality of my world. Shouts from guards come closer and I frantically look around for the source of disruption. In the distance I see a man in black sprinting to the end of the street and disappearing down the bend.
I scramble down the building, my heart pounding an unsteady rhythm. I don’t know what has happened or who is waiting for me at the bottom, all I know is that I have to get out of here fast. But just as I my feet touch the ground, arms grab me and I look up into the harsh eyes of a guard.
I close my eyes and hope he doesn’t notice my grubby face, tattered clothing or my scratched palms.
But he does. I hear his triumphal shouts to the other guards. I begin to protest and attempt to pull away from his grasp, but his hold tightens and soon the other guards are joining him. Fearful tears choke my words and I realise they have no reason to listen to me. Why? Why would they listen to the pleas of a pitiful, filthy child?
As I am dragged away, I take one last look at my haven and it seems to smirk at me with a sadistic glee, the music mocking me.