Artseh

His fingers itched. It wasn’t an itch that could be satisfied by any amount of scratching. He’d tried, and failed. It was an inner itch, an itch that needed an obscure fulfillment to end the insistent quivering. It ran from his fingertips, up to his knuckles, bound his tendons to its will. It flowed up his arms, through his spine, into his mind, his being. It was practically a part of him. The boy growled in frustration. The strings under his itching fingers were pressed tightly to the fingerboard. His hands today were antsy, clumsy, more often than not causing him to miss the notes he knew by heart. This was ridiculous. He hated