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The Cello

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It taunts me as I look at it, where I left it last, in the spare room. It is saying play me, but how can I play? My lost limb is no longer there, taken by the crash, smash of the driver who claims he didn't see me coming.

'Wow you were amazing'.
'You are going to go far with your talent'.
'Next upcoming Cello player Jessica Kimyani'.

These were the past phrases, the reviews I used to receive in my concerts. I was approached to play at the Royal Opera House. But the accident took that away like a thief stealing precious momento's from the house.

The pink ribbon, lush and full of life, raps itself around the Cello like a snake, whilst I broken, tattered and worn stand in it's glow.

'I'm sorry, but we have to cut the arm off' said the Physician.
'But my arm, it is necessary?'
'Yes I'm sorry Miss Kimyani, but the arm has extensive damage and it has to be cut.'

That was the choice I had, none. I didn't have a decision so I gave away my arm and had it cut, sliced and ripped apart from my body like piece of meat. I was given the option of a Prosthetic arm and hand, it would take a couple of weeks for them to get it sorted. Then I was out of the hospital quickly in and out with my past self ripped away.

'I'm sorry' eyes would be lowered without direct contact.
'Your'e a strong person, and will get through this'.
'Anything that you need let us know'.

But I didn't hear from anyone after the accident, I was an embarrassment, a thing to be pitied or ignored like a leper. Even the music company I was assigned too, though I was expecting it, said that I could take some time out to recover, which meant that my career was over.

It looks fresh as it stands there, painted new, lush and staring at me in the spare room, I am sure it's laughing at my stub where my arm used to be. It is saying you can't play me any longer, you are a cripple as the light hits it's beam from behind and glistens my eyes.

I grab it by the throat, and wrestle with it around the room with one arm. I rip it's strings, I break it into pieces, shattering it like my arm was by the driver who was let off with a caution by the police.

There is nothing left of it, just bits of wood, and demolished remains of it's body as it lays there on the floor. The past self that I was no longer a part of who I am now. That awaits me to figure out who I will be now, the Cello has defined my name but it can no longer control my future.




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