When the Saints Go Marching In (Violin Notes)

"Hey, Father." Quinn muttered, ducking their head and barely sparing a moment to kick the sneakers off their feet before they were on their way upstairs.

Thomas never even looked up from his work.

Quinn made sure to slam the door extra hard when they had reached the sanctuary of their room. Flopping down on their bed, they stayed there for a moment before leaning over and grabbing a case from under the bed.

A violin.

They took the bow out first, fiddling with the screws for a moment before tightening the bow hair a little, sliding their finger underneath the string, nodding when it fit in snugly but being careful not to touch the bow hair. Then, they closed their fingers around the rosin and rubbed it up and down the bow, counting in their head until they reached 7.

Then, Quinn picked up the cloth tucked into the case, wiping down the body of the violin to get rid of any excess rosin dust, making sure to get around the F-holes, before running it down the strings as well. After that, they pulled a Q-tip out from the small bundle of them held together by a rubber band in the violin case, using the small cotton at the end to clean under and around the bridge. 

Tossing the Q-tip into a garbage and picking the cloth from earlier back up, Quinn wiped down the wood of the bow. Then they grabbed the bottle of violin polish and the little plastic bag of paper towels, and pulled on thin latex gloves. Pouring a bit of the polish onto the paper towel, they started cleaning the violin, rubbing around the bride area before moving on to the end of fingerboard and around the "C" bouts. Then they started on to the dirt built up on the upper rib, back, and fingerboard, trying to avoid any thin cracks.

Peeling the latex gloves off, they threw them into the rubbish bin, as well as the paper towels, re-capping the bottle of polish.

After that, they set it on their knee, upright and facing away from them, before taking the shoulder rest and making sure that the feet were perpendicular to the pad. Taking the widest part of the pad, they slid the feet underneath the area along the lower back edge, starting near where the chin rest area was and moving it up slowly, until it was acceptable, a couple inches away from the chin rest area.

Quinn took the other side of the shoulder rest (the narrow part of the pad) before sliding the feet underneath the area on the opposite side of the back edge of the instrument. They did this until the shoulder rest pad was roughly perpendicular to the violin.

Holding the violin and bow up for inspection, Quinn hummed to theirself, satisfied with their work. The instrument was clean, practically shiny, and the bow looked to be in good shape.

So they held it up and smiled. Setting it on their shoulder, they lifted the bow and took a deep breath.

Screeeeeeeeeeech!

An awful note tore through the air, the ragged edges of it grating on the high pitch. Satisfied with making their father suitably cringe, Quinn let a gust of air leave their mouth, and started playing.

Strains of a familiar tune drifted, before taking shape. 

We are trav'ling in the footsteps
Of those who've gone before
But we'll all be reunited (but if we stand reunited)
On a new and sunlit shore (then a new world is in store)

Quinn could hear echoes of voices behind the notes, the words etched into their mind with time and many repeats.

O when the saints go marching in
When the saints go marching in
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in

Mouthing the lyrics, they let their eyes drift closed.

And when the sun refuse (begins) to shine
And when the sun refuse (begins) to shine
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in

They remembered the dull fear of the closed locker, their legs cramping and sounds echoing back at them, the darkness seeming all-encompassing.

When the moon turns red with blood
When the moon turns red with blood
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in

Huffing a laugh at the juvenile-seeming fear, they turned their thoughts back to the notes that their hands were playing unconsciously on the violin, bow moving perfectly in time.

On that hallelujah day
On that hallelujah day
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in

With a soft sigh, Quinn drew out the last note, deciding to end there.

It'd been too long since they last played violin.

The End

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