Home At Last
By Lily D.W
THE SPIRIT OF A WINCHESTER
CHARLES EMERSON WINCHESTER THE THIRD, M.D.
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
Honoria sat opposite me at the long dining room table. The phonograph sat between us, a stack of records at its side. "This is pointless, Honoria," I tried to talk her out of it. She put the first record on. Bach. I didn't do anything. The only way to beat her at this was to show no emotion, none whatsoever. Much like Father taught us to play chess. Beethoven's Ninth Symphony this time. I blinked and almost subconsciously nervously drummed my fingers on the oak table.
"Honoria, please," I was almost begging with her now. I could see the record, just two away.
"Charles," she began patiently.
Sweet Honoria, my dear sister. I could never tell her, especially not since I had always insisted nothing was wrong those nights I couldn't sleep, or couldn't explain why I hadn't been to the Boston Symphony once since arriving home.
"I just want to know what is wrong. It has something to do with music, I know. Please tell me Charles. We used to be so close. Something happened. I want to know, I care about you." She put the next record on.
One away. I was sweating now. Incoming wounded were announced. I exited the Swamp, not at all looking forward to the grueling OR session that was undoubtedly ahead. I'm not sure what made me look to that stretcher in particular. But, there he was one of the musicians. One of the small group of people who had made this nightmare almost bearable, if only for a moment. They were all dead. All of them, along with them died the music, for me at least. There it was. Mozart's Clarinet Quintet for Strings. I grabbed it from the phonograph and angrily smashed it against the wall, then strode from the room.
"Charles!?" Honoria gasped. I didn't reply, or rather couldn't. That day, for the first time in my life, I realized that not all of Father's words of wisdom were relevant. Something can break the spirit of a Winchester.