Symphony No. 6 in B minor, Op. 74, ‘Pathétique’ III. Allegro molto vivace

Symphony No. 6 in B minor, Op. 74, ‘ Pathétique’: III. Allegro molto vivace

Thomas awoke with the taste of yesterday’s cheap wine lingering in his mouth. His head throbbed, a familiar discomfort he was compelled to dismiss with a grimace. He needed to have his mind clear today, and he could stave off the withdrawals of laudanum for long enough. With sluggish movements, he pushed himself up from the straw mattress within the cramped quarters of his rented room in Hexham.

Sunlight seeped through the slats of the wooden shutters, casting strips of illumination across the worn floor. He dressed with a sigh in his most presentable attire: a slightly threadbare but respectable coat and trousers, complemented by a clean white shirt and carefully maintained leather boots and top hat. After splashing water on his face, he deemed himself ready to face the day.

The bustling livestock market of Hexham was already in full swing. Farmers, traders, and townsfolk thronged the open square; the air resonated with the lowing of cattle, bleating of sheep, and raucous calls from auctioneers.

In the vast expanse of possibility, Oswald had emerged as a figure of distinction: a sincere farmer from the town’s periphery. His integrity was as steadfast as the sunrise. Thomas had watched him with keen interest, noting his every interaction and habit to devise an appropriate strategy.

This morning, as Thomas approached the unassuming farmer, he donned a smile that belied his true intentions, much like a predator concealing its fangs.

Oswald, a man of modest desires and sparing speech, acknowledged Thomas with a mere nod. His focus remained split between the newcomer and those who might purchase his goods. In that moment of distraction, Thomas presented an offer of partnership. With persuasive charm that wove its enchanting spell, he lured Oswald with visions of augmented profits. After some deliberation, he consented to the arrangement.

Throughout the day, Thomas conducted a series of negotiations with masterful control. He charmed potential buyers, deftly played upon their greed, and escalated prices with the skill of an adept manipulator.

Oswald stood there with astonishment as Thomas procured a sum far surpassing any he had ever amassed.

The sun dipped below the horizon; Thomas departed with a substantial portion of the proceeds from his sale, feeling the satisfying weight of coins in his pocket. This triumph was merely one more stride along his path. With each minor conquest, he edged nearer to that which consumed him: retribution against his brother. The sweetness of success lingered on his tongue, yet it paled in comparison to the intoxicating allure of vengeance that lay ahead.

With the arrival of nightfall, Thomas reclined upon his straw mattress and pondered the day’s successful occurrences. Today had marked a triumph, and with every sunset, his brother’s ruin loomed ever closer.

A week hence, Thomas made his way along a dirt path with erratic strides, oblivious to the enchantment of reds, browns, yellows, and greens that adorned the vista.

Weaving between trees and underbrush, his thoughts were ensnared by shadows from the night he had been cast from his place of safety. He had wandered about that evening in a fit of raging resentment, desiring nothing more than to return and set the cottage ablaze. Instead, he found himself within a bottle’s throw of Hadrian’s Wall, at a forsaken hut—a place where he could succumb to the numbing clasp of his vice until necessity compelled him to venture into the nearest town for supplies.

Approaching the dilapidated dwelling, he scowled at it and uttered a coarse expletive as if it were to blame for his current troubles. Beads of sweat trickled down his temple as he muttered resentfully, “Always taking from me.” His fingers brushed against the false teeth in his mouth, and the lump on his cheek—a constant, painful reminder of Jack’s wrath—provoked a fresh surge of fury within him.

“How dare he!” The words emerged as nothing more than a venomous whisper while he sat on the threadbare couch and sifted through his scant supplies. His search was abruptly interrupted by an onslaught of stomach cramps. A loud curse shattered the stillness as his hands darted with growing desperation to his pockets and belongings.

Goosebumps peppered his skin, a frigid dread seeping into his very bones. He rifled through his supplies once more. Another expletive rent the air as a bitter taste assailed him. “It should be here!” exclaimed he to the vacant hut, panic evident in his voice.

He endeavoured to vacate the shelter before his body succumbed to treachery, yet he could muster only a pitiful stagger as excruciating pain emanated from his abdomen. His frame shuddered in the merciless clutches of withdrawal, and he found himself prostrate at the hut’s uncaring threshold.

Bile assaulted his senses as he violently expelled the contents of his stomach onto the weathered door. His lifeline—his sole means to flee from his tormented reality—had disappeared.

Leaves rustled and crackled at the wind’s capricious whims. Their tumultuous symphony mirrored the instability that raged within him, each gust serving as a chilling portent of the agony destined to consume him should he falter. Yet amidst this turmoil, a flash of recollection pierced through, battling against the chaos.

An urge to surrender to the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness wrestled with his desperate need for relief. Summoned by an obstinate will, he coaxed his trembling body onto unsteady feet.

Fuelled by a sudden burst of determination born from desperation, he staggered into the washroom. The world spun as he lurched toward a small chest perched beside the long-forgotten bath.

Trembling hands flung open the chest, its hinges squeaking in protest at his furious action. Various vials and bottles of medicine scattered across the floor in a frantic search, their glass bodies clattering against the wood. His eyes darted feverishly from one to another, each proving worthless in his single-minded pursuit of salvation.

Fingers slick with a growing sense of dread that gnawed at his sanity slipped over the glass surfaces, casting them aside in frustration and despair. Amidst the sundry bottles of apothecary miscellany, however, he felt an all-too-familiar shape brush against his hand.

Anticipation surged through his veins as he extracted the object of his frantic search. A raw, ragged sigh escaped from chapped lips, and he felt tension begin to subside within his body. He caressed the cool surface of the bottle; the sound of liquid sloshing within was a beacon of hope in his personal abyss.

With feverish intensity, he perused the black script adorning the label. A spark of victory kindled in his hollow shell, a triumph over looming despair. At long last, his treacherous saviour and lifeline lay within reach.

The intoxicating blend of bitter and sweet enveloped his senses. An ominous stillness pervaded the air as he lifted the bottle to his lips.

The potion, both repugnant and precious, slid down his throat; each gulp infused with a desperate longing for liberation from the pain that thudded in his skull. He surrendered to the familiar tide of drowsy warmth that began to suffuse his limbs, his eyelids fluttered closed, a painter lost in the heavy brushstrokes of a dark muse erased the outside world, with its harsh realities and merciless judgments. The biting pain in his jaw supplanted by deceptive warmth. As his grasp loosened, the bottle fell from his hand and clinked softly upon coming to rest on the hard floor, its duty now fulfilled.