Descending Road - THE MUSIC by Dana W. Paxson

THE MUSIC

1529 4D

The pain came in the night. At first it was an ache, then it bloomed into searing streaks of agony on the backs of his thighs. It climbed through his butt and back, and became flames that scorched him all the way to his chest, and he moaned and turned so his battered thighs wouldn’t have to touch anything at all. Out in the front room, the sensi muttered and pounded; his father was probably asleep now.

“Please,” he begged the night, “Please, I’ll never do it again.” Martin, sleeping beside him, didn’t stir.

Time passed, and he heard a faint sound that was not from the sensi. It seemed to come from inside Andrew‘s own head, and it wandered nearer, and it was singing, as if someone approached him. He stared around. Martin still lay sleeping next to him; the cubby was almost pitch-dark. No one else was there.

The singing made words in him, and he didn’t know them, but each word made pictures in his mind. He watched, fascinated; pages turned, singing themselves, and his pain softened and faded. The voice told him a story, wordless and as clean as the mighty sky, and he listened with every bit of himself, and his hurt was gone.

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	THE MUSIC 1529 4D The pain came in the night. At first it was an ache, then it bloomed into searing streaks of agony on the backs of his thighs. It climbed through his butt and back, and became flames that scorched him all the way to his chest, and he moaned and turned so his battered thighs wouldn’t have to touch anything at all. Out in the front room, the sensi muttered and pounded; his father was probably asleep now. “Please,” he begged the night, “Please, I’ll never do it again.” Martin, sleeping beside him, didn’t stir. Time passed, and he heard a faint sound that was not from the sensi. It seemed to come from inside Andrew‘s own head, and it wandered nearer, and it was singing, as if someone approached him. He stared around. Martin still lay sleeping next to him; the cubby was almost pitch-dark. No one else was there. The singing made words in him, and he didn’t know them, but each word made pictures in his mind. He watched, fascinated; pages turned, singing themselves, and his pain softened and faded. The voice told him a story, wordless and as clean as the mighty sky, and he listened with every bit of himself, and his hurt was gone.