Most people don’t understand the brutal hierarchy of an orchestra. Sure, they know there are different sections, different chairs. They joke about ‘playing second fiddle’ with no appreciation for the weight those words carry. Back when I told people I was second chair violin in the National Orchestra, their cattle eyes would bloom with damp, ignorant pity and I couldn’t help but envisage taking a scalpel and gouging them from their heads.
You joined our string section the day of Ronnie’s last performance. I’ve never cared for Ronnie, in the way the moon doesn’t care to wait for the setting sun, so while everyone lauded her with praise and best wishes, my focus was elsewhere.
With quiet grace, you took a seat in the back and began applying rosin to your bow. As you worked, motes of rosin dust floated around you in ethereal wisps. You were beauty incarnate. Despite myself, I couldn’t look away.
The rehearsal commenced. As it was Ronnie’s final concert, the setlist consisted of all her favourites. We started with Brahms Concerto, a piece every violinist worth their salt can play with their eyes shut. Ronnie played competently and, as usual, I accompanied her with contempt dripping from my fingertips.
It’s no secret I was jealous of Ronnie, jealousy comes with the territory, but her reign was ending and, on the eve of her swan song, first chair never looked more enticing.
Meanwhile, you blended seamlessly into the sound, not pulling any undue focus, but I could hear you in the mix. Clean, steady…
Flawless.
• • •
Auditions for Ronnie’s seat were held the following morning and I was the only one to show up. Another thing people don’t know about the music world: even if you’ve been warming second chair for the best part of your career, nothing is guaranteed. Anyone can snatch a position if they audition well enough. Fortunately, my competition knew their place.
When the panel summoned me, I took a breath and went to that dark, beautiful place I go whenever I perform – a realm of savage perfection.
I played flawlessly, said my thanks, and left, certain that I’d clinched it.
My confidence evaporated when I found you waiting outside, violin in hand.
‘Do you need something?’ I asked.
And then they called your name.
My blood ran cold as I listened at the studio door. You were more than flawless, you were perfect.
At that moment, I knew exactly what I had to do.
I couldn’t play like you, so I’d do the next best thing.
• • •
Most people don’t know violin strings are made of catgut. Even fewer know that catgut isn’t catgut at all, it’s sheep intestine.
I’ve been making my own instruments for years, culling the animals myself in my basement abattoir. Luring you down there was surprisingly easy – a few Friday night drinks to celebrate your victory and you were putty in my hands.
One push was all it took.
At the base of the stairs, I examined your splayed body, making sure you were good and dead. Then, I fetched my scalpel and got to work.
Turns out human intestine isn’t all that different to work with.
• • •
Today, you missed your call time.
‘Where the hell is he?’ The company director ran around backstage, pulling at his thinning hair.
‘I have no idea,’ I told him, feigning bewilderment.
The musicians exchanged nervous glances. Your empty chair was a void at centre-stage, your absence threatening to devour the performance whole.
The director pulled me aside, beads of sweat racing down his face.
‘Sorry to ask, but we need a first chair. Could you, possibly…?’
I contemplated for a moment, not wanting to seem too eager.
‘Yes. Yes, I think I can.’
I picked up my violin.
• • •
Tonight, we take the stage together. The audience is in awe as I play, my fingers plucking, pressing down on you to conjure each soaring note. We’re a beautiful spectacle, though I’m the one they’ll remember.
By the end of the final concerto, there isn’t a dry eye in the house – even the police officers waiting in the wings are enraptured.
I suppose I owe you my thanks; I’ve truly never sounded better.
~ fin ~
S.T. Gillard (he/him) is a queer, Scottish author of speculative and weird fiction. His words can be found, or are upcoming in After The Storm, foofaraw press, The Pink Hydra and podcasts Tales to Terrify and Creepy. His sci-fi ballet comic Breaking Pointe was published in 2024 after a successful Kickstarter campaign. He generally prefers the company of dogs to humans and you can find him and his pooch on Instagram @stgillard_writer.
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