The Unnamed Violin

The Unnamed Violin

Stella Fracta

Deep down, I knew I was not a cat at all, but I had to play the part to stay in her arms a little longer.

– Stella Fracta, Wild and Violent

Cover Design Alexandra Undead

Translator (from Russian) Alexandra Undead

Editor Phaenon Dee

© Stella Fracta, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-1899-6

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

0. No choice

I tried to fill the void – but I didn’t know how to fill it with joy … So I filled it with pain.

I slid on the black mud, I scraped my palms on the rough ledges of the rocks, trying to catch hold of something … But in the end, everything turned out as I was told.

A loser, a weakling, and a hopeless fool – once I believed that I could be like everyone else – if I tried hard enough. I just wanted – I do want – to be with her. That’s all I need.

Magic Unnamed Violins, fulfilling wishes, showing the truth, have nothing to do with it. Even if I hear music that has not yet been played … Everything has already happened.

Everything is predetermined, everything is predestined, by the rules of the Game, by invariants. We are all cursed – to run forever in an endless cycle of deaths and rebirths around the Fractured Star, in the wheel of samsara, from the merry-go-round of which no one can escape.

I was told I had a Choice.

I have no choice … I have only love – which they call the strong bond that holds the Universe together, another immutable element of the system, the burden of predestiny, the chain and the rope.

I’m really sorry that it all turned out this way. I’m really sorry.

But I still have many tries for a world of verses in the other multiple variants – for these are the rules of the Game.

1. The Violin

In the reflection of the dressing room mirror, there are two figures caught by the light: mine, with my arms folded thoughtfully across my chest, and a man on a stool in the center of the room, with a package on his knees.

Baphomet continued to boast about his new violin, listing the instrument’s features, using terms jarring to the inexperienced ear. I would have been happy for him – if not for the circumstances.

He was almost late for the concert, he missed the rehearsal and sound check, brought some kind of violin, showed up only at the very beginning of the performance, and even with a jacked up face.

“Look at the ribs, the c-bouts, the f-holes,” he continued. “And the plates are made of flame maple – like those on Venetian gondolas!”

“Yeah, Met, I see. Tell me what’s wrong with you. Were you fighting for this violin?”

He burst out laughing, threw his head back, showing an even row of sharp teeth, and then got serious and started to glance around – at the shadows sitting in the corners.

“Well …” he drawled. “Yes.”

“Did you steal it?”

He clutched the silk-wrapped violin to himself – as if it were the greatest treasure. I let out a cry of indignation.

“Victor, don’t talk nonsense,” he narrowed his eyes – as if I had said something stupid. “A violin like that, it’s impossible to steal!”

Baphomet emphasized the end of the phrase with his voice. Damned wordplay – my musicians’ favorite pastime … Sometimes I didn’t get it, and I was tired of trying.

Rare and antique musical instruments are carefully guarded in museums and private collections. I doubt that Met can afford the legendary violins.

I shifted from one foot to the other and kept a pause of disapproving silence. It didn’t work on him.

“Oh really? In this world, you can steal anything if you want,” I shook my head. “So where did you get it from?”

I pointed at the package. I wouldn’t have cared what kind of violin it was or how it ended up in his hands, but he was acting suspicious. He was strange, stranger than usual. If the police came for him, we’d all be face down here.

“An auction of antique instruments. Early eighteenth century, an unregistered example of the highest quality, not the Cremonese School …”

I was a gifted vocalist, I played keyboards and guitar well, but never touched the violins: the sound of bowed stringed instruments caused me auditory discomfort. The voice of the violin is compared to the human voice … A subject for speculation by mystifiers.

“Last documented appearance – in Eastern Europe, everything matches up. This is the very violin, custom-made by the Unnamed Luthier, the violin thought to be lost forever,” Baphomet declared. “The violin of the Architect of this universe, the only one known to have survived, the Unnamed Violin!”

So that’s it! Antique violins worth a fortune are not the worst of it … Met can’t get enough of his Fractured Star sect, can’t get over the legend of some great violin of the Architect of the Universe – which is somehow special, reveals some kind of secrets of creation.

People believe in what they want to believe. Our aliases, demonic entourage, grotesque costumes are part of the stage image, but Baphomet believed in all this nonsense about the Fractured Star, the Mother of Demons, the center of the multi-world Universe, the Game, and the rules … I just played along with my mates, I didn’t get into the essence.

It would be better if the violin remained in oblivion … Several centuries ago, the aristocracy dabbled in the occult, ordered exclusive instruments from luthiers, and now they are in special demand.

“And you decided that you needed it.”

“Of course!” Met did not perceive my remark as irony. “Yes, Victor, I bought it, and it was not easy, believe me, especially because of the psych fanatics who would do anything.”

Is it really worth it?

“For the record, you are no different from them now, the same patient at Kings Park. Legends remain legends, a violin is just a violin – no matter what got into your head. You’ve got a screw loose because of your sect, and the violin’s place is in the Met Fifth Avenue!”

Baphomet blinked and, confused, as if waking up, clasped his hands around the instrument. He was silent.

“Screw it. Why did you fight?”

Met hesitated.

“I was about to come here, it was dark, he jumped out like a jack-in-the-box, out of nowhere, attacked me, gloomy, creepy … The violin thief! But that’s not the point, absolutely not the point! I haven’t told you the most important thing yet! You confused me with your nerdy questions!”

Baphomet theatrically, smiling, hit himself on the forehead. I frowned.

“The last Unnamed Violin belonged to Lord Vladan, that same Count in Eastern Europe – until it was stolen from the castle by a wandering architect. Well, you remember. The violin had not been heard of for two centuries – but recently it was miraculously found in some junk shop, in the clutter of antiques, they contacted an appraiser – and here we go. No one could even imagine! Victor, do you hear me? This is actually your violin too,” he stressed, “that is, the violin of your ancestors, since Count Vladan is your distant relative. I wanted to make a surprise, I rushed here to explain everything … But don’t get your hopes up – I won’t give it to you, because you don’t know how to play.”

Wait! What does this have to do with me? Another legend! I really did have a Count Vladan in my family, and he had some kind of violin …

The magic Unnamed Violin and my ancestors with their family tree – which I don’t even really know.

Freaking sect.

“Victor, are you speechless from joyful amazement?” Met laughed, slyly squinting his cat-like green eyes. “Or are you not happy?”

I hardly put my thoughts into speech.

“What should I be happy about?” I muttered, discontented with the subject. “Violins are your thing. Fine,” I sighed and took a step back, I had lost the desire to continue the conversation. “We’ll wait for you on stage.”

I turned abruptly on my heels and left the room, leaving a satisfied Baphomet alone with that violin.

With my devilish violin.

2. Forget My Name

Good Room nightclub hall in Brooklyn was bright, loud, sweaty, and crowded – just like the seven masked demons always were at their shows. For the third day now, both at rehearsals and tonight, Baphomet had been playing the Unnamed Violin, and I wanted to run out of the room from an inexplicable unease. Only the music held me back, I was drowning in beams of white light, blinded by a stroboscope, driven by the stories on stage.

There was a struggle inside, a torment and a sweet, terrifying pleasure, flashes of images that I couldn’t even describe. It had nothing to do with the acting task … I felt like I was starting to go crazy, like I wasn’t myself while I was on stage.

I asked Kaftz and Belial if anything strange had happened on stage – but the guitarists only praised the play, using the phrase ‘your violin,’ as if, damn it, it was me playing and not Met!

Am I the only one who notices how the instrument affects us?!

Cellist Met Hedman, aka the demon Baphomet, left yet another girlfriend looking around boredly, separated from the major group and sat down next to me, who had settled down at the bar counter. I was trying to get drunk and get over the intrusive violin melody spinning in my head – under the booming beats of rhythmic patterns for dancing sinners, merging into colorful spots with flashes of neon lights.

“Victor, what’s wrong with you? Stop being sad, join us … Look, your fangirls are over there. They’ve asked about you many times. Look at one of them’s ass … Come on, look, she’s waving at you.”

I winced, shaking my head without even turning around: I didn’t need one-time acquaintances. I’ll manage somehow.

“You sang well today,” he chuckled, and I looked up at him sullenly. “Your voices merged into unison.”

He twirled something suspiciously resembling a violin case in his hands at chest level, and I wheezed, “Do you carry this around with you all the time?!”

“Yes,” he answered carelessly, misinterpreting my reaction, “otherwise anything could happen …”

I sighed heavily, leaning my elbows on the counter in resignation, covering my face with the hand. I really wanted Met to leave me alone, I wanted to be alone.

“Everything is clear with you,” he said, as if he had read my thoughts, standing up and stretching in his typical cat-like manner – as much as there was space among the bodies surrounding the bar counter. “Don’t drink too much,” he laughed at last, pushing me in the shoulder. “The whole night is ahead of you.”

Well said … Despite my build, which would require just one cocktail to make me forget my name, I didn’t get drunk for a long time – even if I took everything the bartender had on the shelves.

The idea of forgetting my name seemed very tempting.

3. Black Shadow

It seemed to appear out of nowhere: a black shadow shot up from under my feet, suddenly appearing in front of me. I was drunk and at first I thought this strange dark something was just a hallucination – but the figure moved towards me, and I instinctively recoiled, raising my hand to eye level.

The rope looped around my wrist, pulling me forward, and I fell to my knees, trying to break free. I braced my feet and one hand against the rough surface of the asphalt, I resisted as best I could, grabbing the lasso, and soon sobriety returned to me.

The shadow wanted to pull me into a dark alley? I let the rope lift me, turning my body towards the one who dragged me along the ground like a calf.

I wanted to push him, but I missed. My left limb was still tied up, I only caught him with my right elbow, falling with all my might onto the pavement, sliding on the ground again.

The shadow’s reaction was quick.

He tried to twist my arm, skirting and pulling the lasso. He moved quickly and elusively, I followed him, rising to my feet. I held on to the rope that was squeezing my wrist, I couldn’t see where he was … It was dark, and his eyes were glowing in the darkness – yellow, like a beast’s.

I won’t manage to escape.

“What the hell do you want from me?!”

I screamed into the void – and blindly jumped at him once more.

This time I knocked the shadow off his feet, and we both fell to the ground. I expected a blow as I fell backwards, but he only pinned me to the pavement, throwing me over my side. He rose instantly, yellow eyes flashing in the darkness. He was silent, I thought I had gone deaf, and all I could hear was my own clumsy movements.

I jumped up abruptly, following his example, but my trembling knees failed me, and I lost a precious fraction of a second … A knife flashed before my nose, I didn’t have time to jump back, I just struck with a backhand and almost at random on the wrist, reflexively.

This only works against right-handed people …

I came across the cutting edge, which had become an extension of the stranger’s glove – and the next second I was already turning the blade away from me, squeezing the base of the handle.

The blood pounded in my ears. I could already imagine my body with multiple stab wounds lying in the alley for several days until a couple of hobos found it, already eaten by rats.

The eerie eyes narrowed, something hot was running down my sleeve to the elbow, only later I realized it was blood … I could no longer move, and the stranger squeezed my hand tighter – with the blade cutting into it – around the handle, the knife, and his own hand. The movements of the left hand were still constrained by a thin slippery thread, disappearing into the sleeve of the flowing cloak of shadow.

A mad, desperate idea came to me. I jerked, feeling the knife go deeper into my palm, and my opponent – as I imagined – smiled an invisible smile. I tried to turn around, to kick him … I cut the cord of the noose that had gotten under the blade, and the cut edge of the lasso disappeared.

In a misplaced act of bravado, I tried to hit him, but he dodged. He let go of my hand, and I, realizing promptly that it was time to stand from under, rushed in the opposite direction from him.

The back of the club seemed like a long dark alley, and at the turn I fell again on my hopelessly skinned knees, I was running, I was out of breath. Finding myself on an empty, deserted street in Greenpoint, I looked back, but there was no sinister shadow pursuing me.

Having already slammed the door, finding myself in my Defender, I tried to stop shaking, even out my hoarse breathing, staring at my bloody hands.

What does he want from me? Money, a phone, car keys? With a rope, a knife … He’s not a robber, he looks more like an assassin who got the era wrong or a serial killer from a horror movie.

Feeling like I was about to pass out, I slapped myself across the cheeks.

4. Icy Hands

I didn’t remember how I got home and treated the cut. I woke up in bed with a hangover, my hand hastily covered with a bandage, my shirt unbuttoned and one shoe missing – because I couldn’t unlace it.

The odd incident had no explanation. The stranger in the alley had intended to strangle me, the purple stripe of the hematoma and the swelling on my left wrist were proof of that. It was too late to apply ice … What happened to my right hand under the bandage was anyone’s guess – but it would heal. I’m left-handed anyway.

I tried to get up, tossing and turning on the crumpled sheets in the pose of a dead cockroach, but it didn’t work right away. Finally, I took an upright position and went to the bathroom.

A thin, pale guy with dark circles under his eyes was looking at me sullenly from the reflection in the mirror of the cabinet. On the cheek was a red mark from the corner of the pillow, which I usually don’t lie on, but only prop up with my head.

I turned on the water with disobedient hands and stared at the sink drain, trying to stop the buzzing in my ears. There were few thoughts in my head, and they all sounded like memorized clichés … And I really wanted to lie down and die.

There’s been worse shit – and for some reason I started moping. So what, a fight in an alley! So what, a fight in an alley with an incorporeal black shadow!

I shivered. The shadow wasn’t incorporeal, the shadow had icy hands in gloves. Everyone who repeats the refrain: ‘Victor, your hands are like a dead man’s, cold!’ is probably mistaken.

If I am a dead man, then who is he – this guy with glowing yellow eyes?

I looked up from the rushing water in the sink. My eyes were gray, not yellow … I grinned mirthlessly.

A second later, I was already trying to wipe the dirt off my cheek – wincing and cursing through my teeth of the pain in my limbs. I’ll have to get used to it.

It was uncomfortable to stand in one boot. I struggled to pull off my unlaced Dr Martens, angry that I couldn’t bend over, my knees looked as bad as they felt through the layer of dirt and dried blood over my torn pants. Finally, I managed to get rid of the boot, and, limping awkwardly, I threw it angrily through the doorway somewhere in the direction of the room. It hit the obstacle with a loud, dull thud, but there were no other sounds. I hadn’t broken anything.

I sent the shirt flying like a black blot after the boot. In a thoughtless, sickening stupor, I unzipped my fly and sat down on the edge of the bathtub, my head spinning … I was pulled out of my trance by an extraneous sound, as if not from my lonely reality – a phone ringing, coming from the room.

I lazily pulled my jeans down to my knees and didn’t even think of answering. It was probably the persistent Kaftzefoni – he was the only one of my circle who woke up in the first half of the day.

The phone went silent, I yanked my jeans down from my knees, tearing off layers of skin along with my clothes … Unpleasant. The jaw hurt from clenching my teeth. Damn that guy from the alley!

Once I had finished with all my clothes, freeing myself from the tight pants – not for the first time regretting wearing tight jeans – I climbed into the shower.

To hell with it all – I need to wash myself off from this nasty day.

Leaning my shoulder against the wall, closing my eyes tiredly, I could again hear the sound of the phone through the noise of the water.

5. In Its Place

I wanted to smoke. I rushed around the apartment looking for a pack of cigarettes: keys, money, phone – everything was in place … My habit of emptying the contents of my pockets on the nightstand as soon as I returned home had not let me down, but the cigarettes were nowhere to be found. I was disappointed – but soon my gaze fell upon the pack on the floor between the nightstand and the bed.

Praise be to all the gods, demons, the Fractured Star, whoever.

I took a drag. Everything in its place, a cozy little world. People call it social phobia … I didn’t care what they called it. I didn’t need people.

The part of the world I appear in is just underground, these are masks and roles, the real me, it seems, no one really knows. There are eight million people in New York City, seven billion on the planet … I am lucky that my existence is remembered only when it is necessary to entertain the crowd with music, I am lucky that for some reason I am useful in the business that I do best.

I lay on my back across the bed, my head thrown back, looking at the colorless daytime sky, turned upside down, the gray day with gloomy clouds feebly breaking through the window. I didn’t want to do anything, again this familiar apathy … I can do nothing.

I sat up. The cigarette had long since burned out in my hand, the pain in my wrist was pulsing with heat, the bandage was white on my palm. Indifferently looking around the room, I suddenly remembered the missed phone call. I hobbled to the nightstand.

Two missed calls. From an unknown number.

The thought that this number and the new acquaintance with yellow eyes were somehow connected sent an unpleasant chill down my spine. Nonsense.

My eyes were closing, either from fatigue or boredom. Curled up in a fetal position – as much as my crippled limbs allowed – I fell asleep. Later, I never remembered the missed call or called back.

Outside the windows of the apartment building, uninteresting to me, a New York anthill was seething, the evening streetlamps lit up in the twilight, inviting the autumn night. I dreamed of yellow eyes and a laughing violin dancing around a gypsy fire.

6. Freaks Me Out

“You used my credit card?”

I was taken aback and just blinked my eyes in confusion.

“Yeah, what’s wrong? You owe me a couple hundred.”

“How— Why are you telling me this only now?”

The club staff rushed past us with a bunch of wires under their arms, and I had to step aside so as not to get in the way as they passed.

I glared at Baphomet. That bastard paid for the violin with my credit card!

“But it’s your violin,” he justified himself.

He didn’t even try to feign remorse – he saw that I wasn’t angry, just confused.

“It’s not my violin,” I said, turning on my heels towards the stage.

I was alarmed by the news, the rage was less than the inexplicable anxiety. Sometimes these demon musicians are so odd …

I looked back at Met, swallowing my unspoken doubts, and just shrugged my shoulders peacefully, “Never mind, it’s time for us to go.”

After the performance, I felt like death warmed over. The audience screamed and applauded, but it seemed to me that I was being driven into a corner, hopelessness was shrinking like a narrow beam of light in which I, like a circus beast, bare my body and soul for everyone to see …

Already in the dressing room I realized that I had simply run away, not paying attention to the enthusiastic roar of the crowd, begging for a continuation, chanting the name of our band, my name. Seeing a dark figure in the reflection behind me, I jumped up like a scalded cat, but was pinned to the stool by a heavy hand.

“Victor, are you sick?”

The demon Kaftzefoni – aka Kaftz, aka Keith Sandström – had crept up unnoticed and was looking at me attentively. The focused expression on his face was rare.

Why did I chicken out? I just need to get some sleep.

“I’m great … Wonderful,” I pursed my lips, not even trying to look convincing.

There is no point in lying to Kaftz. He is not a fool – even if he pretends to be a jester, with his guitar tricks and dances on stage, his nasty and obscene humor.

“Does this violin freak you out?”

He’s right, this violin freaks me out – the problem is definitely with it, nothing else.

I turned around on my stool and found myself face to face with the goat head mask in the musician’s hands, silently laughing at me with its horned muzzle. I looked up at Kaftzefoni, who was looking down at me with a testing gaze. The mask bore an obvious resemblance to him.

Scratching his goateed chin, Kaftz said, “I don’t like your dull appearance.”

“Me too,” I responded with genuine annoyance. “But it really does freak me out!”

Kaftz leaned over, and the goat’s head swung, watching me with its brown eyes. I wanted to flick it on the nose, but I restrained myself.

“I know what to do,” the head said in the voice of Kaftz, who was standing in front of me. “Have you ever seen how to fight fire with fire?”

Burn the violin? I can do that easily!

Unfortunately, it was just a figure of speech. I shook my head, pulling away, already knowing deep down what he was going to make me do. I opened my mouth to protest, but changed my mind.

Yet another cliché … What do I have to lose? Having sat in a cozy little world for too long, sooner or later I will knock over the swing that has stopped rocking, self-sabotage is my middle name.

A few moments later I was already confidently walking out of the dressing room, bypassing the watchful fans of our musical creativity, to join the rest of my mates in demonic guises. Kaftzefoni, carrying a goat-head mask like a ritual bowl, followed me.

7. Unplayed Note

He must have been smiling smugly, nodding to the others that he had inspired me to play the violin. I couldn’t see his face, but I felt six pairs of eyes looking at me expectantly – as if I were going to come up with something brilliant, and it would be the greatest violin concerto.