Spoiler
Your theme is about a composer in a mental institution laughing at evil jokes.
The music surged through my veins like a pulse. My arms waved manically while conducting the beautiful symphony. My staccatos, slurs, and crescendos took me away to a faraway land filled with magnificent colors and sounds. Sharps created red flashes, while flats made shades of gray float across the sky. Once the final note was played, I turned around to face my applauding audience. They stood on their feet and the volume of their ovation escalated each time I took a bow. My masterpiece was complete, and the world loved me. I could hear them chanting my name, “Asa…Asa…Asa!” The earth began to shake, and my vision became blurry.
The screaming continued, “Asa! Asa!!”
“Huh? What?” I looked around and discovered that my caretaker, Callie, had pulled me back to unfortunate reality.
“It’s time for breakfast,” Callie informed me as I sat up and rubbed my eyes. I slowly scanned my plain room with off-white walls one window. Outside the window was a green field still fresh with droplets of morning dew. The scene reminded me of a peaceful Mozart piece I learned when I was very young, and the music notes began to flow through my mind.
I stood up and stretched out my sore back after sleeping on the stiff, scratchy, straw bed the institution provided its patients.
As I took a few steps, the music in my head swelled to an epic masterpiece. I dreamily waltzed to the dining area and took a seat in my designated chair. Albert sat silently to my left, carefully touching his spoon for his oatmeal as if it was on fire. To my right was discombobulated Tiffany. Her hair looked as if she had stuck her finger in a socket. She sat wide-eyed, quickly scanning back and forth as if someone was ready to pounce.
I took a hesitant bite of the gray mush, and my symphony fell flat. I had to force myself to swallow as I reached to take a sip of my ice-cold coffee. The high power of strings shrieked and racked my brain while the chilly liquid slid down my throat. My breakfast concerto continued until I couldn’t stand the grotesque taste anymore.
“Mr. Rockland, it’s your turn to sit outside today,” a man in a uniform said to me with a warm smile. He was probably hiding the fact that my breakfast was absolutely horrid, but I got up and followed him to the yard anyway.
The yard gave a more interesting a curious feel. Inquisitive staccatos danced as I scanned the actions different patients made throughout the grassy area. One man thought his head was made of delicate glass. He walked slowly and carefully as if balancing on a tight rope, terrified of falling to the ground or getting hurt. A woman with greasy, jet black hair glared menacingly at anyone that walked by her. I decided to grab a seat next to one of my acquaintances, Robert Markham. He was a fairly aged man who had been admitted into the institution for trying to murder a colored man. He sincerely believed that minorities were out to destroy any white man alive, including himself.
“Hello, Robert,” I greeted as I sat down next to him.
“Hello, Asa,” he returned. “Having a good morning?”
“If you call cold coffee and gray goop for breakfast a good morning,” I replied darkly.
Robert chuckled, “Ah, their terrible meals, always a great way to start the day.”
“Did you not eat?” I questioned.
Robert shook his head, “Nah. A colored man was seated at my table today for breakfast. I refuse to share a table with that filth.”
I laughed quietly to myself. His racist comments were somehow comical. My chuckle motivated him to begin telling insulting jokes like an activist questioned about their cause.
“Get a kick out of this one,” he began. “What do you call a boatload of negros going over a waterfall?”
I shrugged.
“A chocolate fountain!” He began to crack up as if on a sugar high.
I began to laugh, but mainly from his own reaction.
“What word starts with ‘N’ and ends with ‘R’ that you never want to call a black person? Neighbor!” Robert began his cackle once again, slapping his knee and wiping his eyes.
Suddenly, beautiful piano music filled my ears. I immediately perked up. The scales made me float to the sky, as if in a dream. I sat there for a few moments, reminiscing the days where I would sit in front of a large audience and play the most amazing concertos. Everyone loved me, that is, except Ronaldo Glasswig. He despised my music, and told the world exactly so. His news spread like the plague, and my audience dramatically shrunk. On the night of my last concert, Ronaldo had managed to be the only attendee. He looked at me with a smug grin and declared, “You’re finished.”
Those two words destroyed me. I went straight into depression, failing two attempted suicides. My wife admitted me into the Stockton Mental Institution, where I’ve lived ever since.
These memories took over my being, and I began to lose it. I rushed to the piano, shoved the player off his bench, and through the sheet music wildly into the air.
“Ronaldo!!” I shouted multiple times. “You ruined my life!!!”
Quickly a nurse scurried to my side and tried to calm me down. Then she slowly took me to the basement area. I knew what was coming: shock therapy. I calmly followed the nurse, accepting my fate. I didn’t deserve to live if I couldn’t share my music. I was forever stuck in this hellhole.
She strapped me in a chair, and I braced myself. Buttons were pressed and suddenly hot energy surged through me as if being constantly struck by lightning. My symphony exploded to the climax, strings squealing and trumpets blaring. Magnificent colors clouded my vision, and I was sent into a glorious whirlwind of musical infinity.
This was brilliant...