I stood there, staring at her graceful lines. I knew she was something special. Those curves! That lovely sheen of black! Of brunette! How I longed for her to be truly mine. How I wanted her desperately.

How, really?

I held my breath as I touched her, her coolness eliciting a sigh from me. Her smooth surface I adored. Her charm had no bounds.

Do you truly adore her?

As I held her, both ecstasy and sorrow mesmerized me.

Yes, you should feel sorrow.

No, I hated her. I hated her, truly. She was a spirit too wild. I knew, deep in my heart, that she had never been truly mine.

Oh, yes, you hate her. You never loved her.

And yet, once I had loved her. The first time I met her, my little fingers had traced her lines carefully, admiring her gleam and her weak but refined voice that I managed to draw out from her. For years I was held under the allure of her voice.

Really, is that so?

Her voice. The thought of her voice suffocated me. Her voice was no longer for me. I could not make her sing for me. She no longer answered my pleas. All I had for an answer was a squeal, if not a groan.

She was never meant for you.

I knew I should've given her up a long time ago. I knew my fate had no place for her. I had been obstinate. I had procrastinated for too long,

Now it is time that you finally gave her up.

For one last time, I caressed her with my hands. It was the last stroke. Now it was time for a perpetual adieu.

Yes, goodbye.

There was a loud crash, then a screeching noise that wounded all ears. Her scream echoed in my ears as I stared at her broken remains in my hands.

It was a deed that should've been done a long time ago.

One, two, three, four... I started to pick up all the broken pieces of the wood, desperate and uncontrolled. Something damp fell down onto the glossy piece of wood. Then another. Then, much more.

Why do you cry? See, she does not feel for you, even now. Look at her indifferent countenance!

I wept because I had loved her, whether it was an unrequited love or not. I wept because I had, with my own hands, destroyed the entire vestige of my having been with her. She was now no more. There was no going back.

Relish in the sorrow for now. In a few hours you will no longer feel a thing.

After gathering up all her broken pices, I placed them gently inside her lovely crimson case. On the outside of the case was my name with hers printed in a neat, careful handwriting: CHELSEA NORRIS, VIOLA.

No need to treasure her remains.

Still weeping, I took up the case and placed it in the attic, determined never to see her again. Giving the case one final glance, I left the attic, already feeling the burden of her being lifted off my shoulders.

See? Art is meant for some; for others, it is wasting time. You were simply in the wrong line from the beginning. Now, relieve yourself of that childhood burden.

I was no longer melancholy. I was happy. I was probably the happiest girl that I had ever been in my whole life.