Music Machine

by LockandKeyHyena

Chapter 1

I think I was created to play music.
I think this because there is a gramophone on my back.
I think it is supposed to play music.
It does not.

I take step. It echoes down the hall, adorned with rotting drapery and rusted candle-holders. The magnificent architecture falling to ruin before nopony’s eyes. I wait. I take another step. It echoes down the hall again. I am used to this repetition.
My hoof thuds softly against the disintegrating carpet that lines the hallway, interrupted every so often when my hull meets with a hole in the rug. Duff. Duff. Duff. Clack.

I imagine I am playing a song, sometimes. A long, drawn out song where the notes ring out for years between breaths.

Breaths.

I do not breathe.
I do not think I am supposed to.

My cogs turn, steam rattling through the metal tubes, whistling with a shrill whoosh as it strains my slowly rusting gears. The noise distracts my wandering mind, centres me. Stops me from thinking thoughts that would just upset me.

I do not remember much, but I do remember Sister.

Sister.

I do not cry.
I do not think I am supposed to.

Condensation drips from my barrel, landing on the wooden floor with a wet plink. Sister was always nice, always soft. Always there. What was her name? Why can’t I remember her name? Was I not supposed to? That cannot be right. My memory banks must be failing. Memory banks? What use are memory banks to a music machine? Sister would know the answer. She always knew the answer.

As if to centre me once more, the house lets out a groan, the wood beneath my hooves threatening to give way.

I do not fear death.
I do not
do not
do

The house settles, and I do not fall through the floor boards. Whoosh. Plink.

…

Duff. Clack.

I do not know where I am going any more. My framework creaks as I turn my head to examine one of the remaining portraits dotting the hall. It is of a purple-maned unicorn mare with a white coat. She sits, patiently waiting to have her portrait finished, a subtle smile gracing her lips. Enough to be there, but restrained enough to be refined. The painting itself has begun to chip and peel, years of neglect and exposure to all manner of insects taking their toll on the once-beautiful piece. The gold-leaf frame flakes away, revealing blackened wood beneath.
It does not matter. The mare is still stunning. I smile. I think I am supposed to.

Duff. Duff.

My joints creak once more as I turn my attention from the painting. Creeak.

I do not know where I am going. But I do know why.

Duff. Duff. Plink. Whoosh. Creeak. Clack.

The sounds coalesce into a cacophony of noises, each combining with another in a discordant clamour. Wailing, moaning, like the sound of a funeral dirge.

The gramophone on my back no longer plays.
But that does not mean I cannot make music.