Author's POV

'But it made you stronger'

I was a child.

I didn't need to be stronger.

I needed to be safe.

Melodies of pain filled the empty skies in vain. Notes of sorrow held words of despair.

The silence in between was the loudest scream of agony. Shouts of wrath reopened wounds in the most shattered of hearts.

The crisp music of the oh-so-famous Stradivarius violin resonated through the thin and unsteady walls of the cramped house. The crisp sound of the violin reflected the emotions of its owner. Because screams of wail danced note by note. Beautiful chaos played out as the fingers of the young boy calculatively touched certain frets.

The aggressive piece was an outbreak of the rage that the composer in front had unleashed on it when creating the masterpiece. So this is how the young teenage boy ran the wooden bow across the tight strings of the instrument. Like a machine, he played the impossibly speedy notes, but like a human, he portrayed the burst of emotions.

His expression was that of an artist who wanted nothing but to be understood and have the freedom to express themselves. Therefore, his eyebrows were furrowed, and his eyes shut close so that he could feel the notes deep down in his heart. He poured his soul into his craft and passion. He gave his everything for the one thing he could call his. His music.

It wasn't exactly his, yet the way he portrayed the set of emotions given to him as instructions was something only he could do differently. And that was the only good thing about him that he was aware of.

However, that was not the case in his father's eyes. The way his fingers swiftly dashed across the frets, the way his frail, busted hands held onto the bow, and the loud echos of his rich melodies-none of that ever pleased him.

The boy was nothing but a failure in his father's eyes. He could do nothing but play the violin, but even in that, he was worse than any artist. Perhaps it was the perfectionist mind of his father or his composer that didn't allow that man to ever be satisfied with his son. Because all he saw in his child was one of his filthy papers that he'd note down his ideas and throw away if he didn't find any interest in them.

His father used him for nothing but money. He wasn't worthy of anything else to begin with, so, like a peasant, he treated his eldest son. It was for reasons that the poor boy had no control over. Something that, no matter how much he prayed and begged, could never change.

Hense, like a machine, his father worked him non-stop. The adolescent was born into a family of performers and musicians. There was no such thing as a 'choice' for him from the very beginning. The only choice he was given was whether he'd play the piano or the violin for the rest of his life. And we all know his answer.

The violin was an instrument with four strings and a bow; that's it. Yet it had the capability of being able to play an entire orchestra. Lead hundreds of musicians all alone and sound greater with its light yet passionate voice. And even at the young age of 5, after observing his father's concert, he knew exactly what he'd do for the rest of his life.

Call it a genetic thing, but for the boy, it was pure love for the artistry of music that fuelled his abused will to even orchestrate the truth, regardless of how hard his father pushed him past his limits. At first, the boy couldn't feel too bad about anything because his father treated his younger brother the same. Making him play the piano for hours with no food or water. They couldn't get out of their places until they could master a 10-page score without a single mistake.

But things changed for the elder son when his father made him go too far. After practicing for hours and hours, the fingers of the young violinist's hand went red, aching, and trembling with numbing pain. The skin had become tender, and even the hard calluses had burst open, leaving a thin layer of burning skin. However, every time, even the slight faults in his playing, such as the vibratos not being too flowy, the dynamics not blending in with the note, or even the bow direction being odd, would end the boy with 5 cracks of a whip on his back and 10 on his hands before coldly being told to resume.

Yet things went so well that the tips of the fragile fingers couldn't cooperate in saving their owner's life. By the speed they were moving in and by how the once sturdy strings had then become knives, the skin of every fingertip ripped in lines, bleeding and staining-the black fingerboard with a similar colour.

Being too immersed in his music, the boy hadn't realised the odd moisture puddling around his fingers (because he was constantly sweating doing the same thing) before having heard a startling gasp erupt out of his own father's mouth. A gasp of nothing but horror and disgust.

His instincts told him to stop playing, but his father's earlier yellings didn't help that. So the boy didn't dare open his eyes to meet the loathsome eyes until his now-stained violin was ripped away from his hands and a loud slap echoed across the entire house. Silenced even the singing voice of his mother's fluttering, higher soprano voice.

"You dirty-blooded demon!"

That was all his father said to him that day before cruelly whipping him until unconsciousness elapsed.

It was during the torture that his eyes managed to take a glance at the horrifying sight. Nothing but the icky darkness of the substance stained his hands. with the exact scent of metallic blood.

Like the demon he was told he was, treated like one he got. Being starved for days, tortured for hours, and abandoned for months. His mother and brother didn't even bother helping him, appalled by the sight and news they'd managed to steal; they didn't even want to be near that thing.

Yet the elder boy always remembers the somewhat sympathetic look he'd ever gotten, and it was from no one but his brother before his lifetime of suffering began. He was only 10 at that age, and his brother was 8. Who said life pitied the oldest and the youngest of souls?

Being littered with wrath and blinded by darkness, his heart went rotten. His emotions numbed as scars emerged day by day. He bled out so much that there was no blood left. He had cried out so much that there were no tears left. He had felt so much that he couldn't care about anything else.

There was no will to live or to do the only thing he once loved. It wasn't fun; it was a punishment now. However, oddly enough, the more he dreaded the entire existence of the arts, the more he improved his own skills.

Being demanded to play constantly, just like a machine, it was all the same as before, that it was much crueller, but the biggest difference was that the emotions he once painted the piece with were now nothing but an overused, twisted, empty tube of paint. Dirty and stained, he was left. Even with the unwilling leftovers, his craft became impossibly unrealistic.

By the age of 14, his skills and ongoing torture had made him the youngest and first prodigy of his age in the world of classical music. From playing at dinners of rich noblemen, he was playing at opera houses, the biggest orchestra halls, and even at the private gathering of the rich traders who'd pay him (his father, may I say) handsomely. So you could surely say that he was his father's classy slave who did nothing but bring him in front of his feet every day.

But it wasn't only the money but also the fame. The now-teen child had become so bizarrely talented in his craft that his father didn't tell him what to do but instead gave him the piece to be interpreted just as he'd like. And with his enigma of a persona who played the oh-so-famous pieces on stage, he even raised the eyebrows of the most well-known violinist.

The more he loathed the world, the more his fingers pressed against the strings, and the better his skills became. His speed was unhuman, and his intonation and steadiness were those of a sturdy machine. His interpretation of the emotional scores was shocking because it made the most difficult of pieces sound as effortless as a children's game.

Where there is light, there is shadow. Hatred began to pile up on his face. Infuriated and ashamed, musicians blinded by jealousy threw tomatoes at him outside the venue. Critics called him out for the smallest of things, such as a millisecond pause in his phrasing. But, as we knew, the boy did nothing.

After years of being the best, regardless of how odd or difficult the pieces were, the boy we knew performed it all to a level that no one could ever reach. The fact that even the violinists themselves didn't know how it was possible made the situation logically uneasy.

Not being able to bear the simple, ashaming fact, the musicians decided to come up with a name that was nothing worse than a curse or a scar.

'Violinist of the Devil'

It was profoundly amusing when humans simply felt anger at someone else's success; they'd do anything to make that person crumble into mere cripples of nothingness. Ruin their surroundings so that their lives can become a living hell. Spread foolish lies that were idiotic to logical ears but exciting to drama-hungry beings. Point out the insecure flaws of someone people thought to be perfect.

Humans were so petty. Humans were so scared of things that were different. No one wondered if they were worse than any demon or ghost that 'haunted' people to their deaths.

'Demons aren't born; they are made.' And it is us humans that create them, by filling poison of abuse in their veins. Injecting their minds with intoxicating garbage. And sabotaging the emotions of one so they never even dare to be different.

"Stop!" A loud, yet manly voice pierced through the heaviness of the once-running music.

The boy's eyes snapped back open into reality with fright as his veins pumped with the adrenaline of anxiousness. The coils of the worms instantly crawled into every remaining corner of his gut. His hands stood in the exact same position when the voice echoed like a cue. His right hand tilted upwards with the bow hitting the first (G) string of the violin, with his fingers on the said place but on a different fret.

Saying that he stood still was a lie. If you'd look just the tiniest bit closer, his hands shuddered as if a harsh wind were blowing on a poor twig, his lips quivering with panic. Sweat trickled from the side of his forehead, crawling its way through the cold yet burning skin of its owner.

"Why is the vibrato so frantic, and why is the pianissimo so weak?! It sounds like the sound of a dying rat far from the corner." The father insulted with rudeness, over-exaggerating his words so his son would feel worse about the talents he already deemed to be nonexistent.

Not a single reply brimmed out the son's mouth; instead, the child lowered his head downward, attempting his best to avoid the fiery glares of his own father.

"I asked you something, boy!" This time, the ear-piercing crack of the whip was the reason a silent shiver ran down the spine of the said boy.

The reason was simple. When you're overly nervous, subconsciously, your hands start shaking uncontrollably, making it difficult to have a smooth and sustained vibrato that blends the notes. The pianissimo might have been weak due to the bow not being pressed with the balance to keep the sound both soft and ongoing. It was an everyday problem for musicians performing on the stage.

But not a single mistake was allowed under this roof.

"You know what? Put your violin down and meet me in the basement in 5 minutes. You know what to do." He was faced by his father's back as the man commanded with a grumble.

However, his poor son's breathing only quickened. He was absolutely petrified of the mentioned basement. And only he knew why.

He snapped out of the trance of fear; he didn't want his punishment to worsen by his not being there within the given time limit. His sweaty palms placed the fortune-costing violin with a mixture of care and rush. In a flash, he was off to the dark, dusty basement, which only held the deadly memories of nothing but his screams and the painful sound of whiplashes.

•──────•~❉᯽❉~•──────•

As the pictures in his head faded into a dark abyss, the light of subconsciousness shunned inside him, along with some muffled words that were incomprehensible to the man who was still in the process of finishing his beauty sleep.

"Jin, wake up; we've landed," a familiar voice announced, fatigue evident.

The said person's eyes opened up with a groggy expression. Jin squinted his eyes at the bright rays of the cabin lights. It was fuzzy and difficult in the beginning for him to grasp exactly where he was and what he was seeing.

It took seconds before not only did his eyes become clear, but so did his mind. Memories of the dreamland pictures decided to reappear in his head, reminding him exactly what he saw.

It was those damn nightmares again.

When realisation dawned upon him that he was on a job starting now and the nighmare yet had the audacity to reappear, he couldn't help but flip away his blanket in panic.

Yoongi's body backed away in a reflex. The male was already aware that something was wrong with his friend, and seeing his reaction as soon as he woke up only proved his point.

"You're on a plane," Yoongi nonchalantly answered the question-filled eyes of the taller assassin.

Jin snapped his head towards the now-recognised sound of the person he knew very well. His own eyes were wide, as everything was attacking him all at once, like a heart attack. His brain was truly grateful for the obvious information handed to him.

Too many thoughts cluttered through the narrow alleys of his brain. For a couple seconds, the male just sat on his seat as he stared at the floor, burning it as if looks were like torches. His complexion began to grow paler, and the hair on his skin abruptly stood up.

He'd seen the same boy. Why? He didn't even know who the young man was! Did all of this perhaps hold a secret message for him? But again, though, why?

Yoongi had complied with the unsaid message of the younger person wanting to just take a quick pause to recap everything that had happened. The man had already taken notice of his other two teammates leaving the private aircraft after the door was held open for them. Surprisingly, even Namjoon stepped out without a single glance towards Yoongi's friend. Unusual!

The cat-eyed male's eyes flooded with worry as he saw his friend gradually picking his body up.

"Jin, I'm actually worried for you. I know you don't care, but this is very much going to and is already affecting not only you but your work performance." He stated the obvious fact that Jin was refusing to accept.

"I'm fine, Yoongi; I don't know why you're being so overly dramatic all of a sudden," he rudely confronted his behaviour as he turned his back to grab his hand luggage from the luggage holder.

"As days pass, you're not only growing more closed up but even beginning to hurt yourself! Look at how pale and thin your body has become. When was the last time you ate, Jin? Because you've been practically repelling anything that might keep you alive." Yoongi was spitting out facts, and Jin was fully aware. No answer came from the other party but a simply fatigued sigh.

"You had a nightmare, didn't you?" The question had Jin almost whipping his head, trying to keep his expression closed. He screamed out, 'How did you know?'.

"Throughout your sleep, you were sweating a shit tone; even your expression was fucked up, Jin! Is that why you've been so distant lately?"

"The situation is not as easy to explain as you'd imagine, Yoongi." Jin seethed quietly, growing quite irritated by all the assumptions and questions the other had for him.

"Why can't you at least try to, then?" Desperation occupied his voice, and his own frustration was visible. But his words had come to become weaker. He was still facing Jin's back, which prevented him from seeing how a huge frown lay on his face as he quickly packed his bag.

After a minute of overwhelming silence breezed through them, the taller male turned around to look his friend straight in the eye. Yoongi's heart only cracked more when he saw an expression in his eyes that hadn't appeared for years.

Pain.

"I need...time. Even I don't know what's happening to me." His voice was grave and almost silent, yet still audible.

The cat-eyed man instantly nodded his head understandingly. "Of course, as you like. But please, Jin, no matter how much you avoid this, you have to let out your thoughts to exactly understand what's happening." He warned the other male.

Jin nodded his head lightly before turning on his heel with his bag slung over one of his shoulders and gradually heading out with Yoongi right behind him.

These nightmares were turning his life into a living hell. All of this had a meaning, and Jin was never more willing to find out exactly why his life was being infected in such a way once again.

As an ex-musician myself, this is so far my most fav chap in the book ^^