The music of the birth of stars fluttered delicately as butterflies' wings over her body, a night kiss of angels. If only his touch were as gentle and magical for her as for his beloved violin. Eyes closed, she let the bow caress her as it caressed the strings, trying to forget everything but the music. His heart sang only through his music, but it sang so beautifully, with such exquisite love and longing . . . . It was worth what always came before. That was what she told herself every time, and when it was a good as this, she believed it.
The music soothed them both, making a lovely lace of the scars they shared. She knew that every mark his pain left on her body was a portrait of an identical but invisible mark beneath his skin, and every tear she cried stood in for one that poisoned him inside. In that way she, too, was his work of art, almost a self-portrait; not as beautiful as he was, but still, true. He saw - and often said - she wasn't beautiful, but always true. Those who winced at that didn't understand. He was saying that he needed her, that she had value, served a purpose. Those words warmed her and she was grateful for them, grateful for him, grateful for the chance to serve his need. That was love, to serve, no matter what, and she loved him with her whole self.
Her body had served him well tonight, for several hours and in many ways, but sometimes love was hard. He had taught her that. She was very hard to love, she knew, but he kept her with him, took care of her, let her love him all she could and, best of all, he played for her. Sometimes every night for days or weeks at a time. He was making her good, too. She knew the Bible - turn the other cheek, lay down your life, love at all times, if you don't forgive you aren't forgiven, and there were so many others. They read together sometimes, and other times he would remind her or quiz her, even when he was terribly upset and angry with her. "The Lord disciplines those He loves," and he loved her even more than the Lord did, she was sure of it. It was special to be loved so much, and that made her special. She would go to heaven because of him, and not where she belonged. There must be beautiful music in heaven. Could it ever be as beautiful as this? Surely even angels couldn't make such lovely noise. He would play in heaven, she was sure, and she wanted nothing more of heaven or of earth than to be allowed to love him and to listen.
The music stopped. He sat for a long time, face in his hands, then went into the bathroom, ran water, and returned. He stood over her - he was so tall, so big, almost like God she sometimes felt - reached over and raised the windowshade. Pale grey light slipped in and she saw his face, tired and sad and filled with love. He saw hers too, and first grimaced and then looked away as he used the wet cloth he'd brought to wash away dried blood and tears. She wished she could be beautiful for him, so he could look at her. He only ever looked, or touched her, in the dark, and that was why. She wasn't beautiful. He scrubbed and wiped at all the bloody places, never looking but knowing by experience where they would be, then drew the blanket over her and to her chin. He felt under the bed for what had fallen hours ago, and gave it back to her, and left the room. "Good night, Daddy", she whispered, and cuddling closer to her teddy bear, she slept.