She used to love music; it allowed her to forget.  She would dance through the house, with the rhythm of the drums, the twangs of the electric guitar, and the singer’s addictive words all echoing through the wooden floors and disappearing into shadows.  Sunlight spilled onto her brown hair as the beat flowed through her.  Every dance move, every belted word, every air guitar solo, she displayed her true emotion: music was everything to her.  It allowed her to forget.
       Then he came home, and a new song started.  The song introduction was low and dark, with a base drum just kicking, kicking.  The beat was then accompanied with a base guitar, vibrating with each step he took toward her.  She stood still, each note running through her body and shaking the floor around her.  He reached out, touched her, and the beat picked up.  A quickened drum beat, her quickened heartbeat, simultaneously accelerated, and the song was off.  She tried to push away, but the song’s words, his warm hands, moved with precision and accuracy - knowing every curve to the song, every curve on her body.  The notes got higher, his hands got lower, and then the chorus began.
The purpose of the song, the purpose of his tight grasp upon her, echoed through the house.  His hands ran over her skin like the delicate rhyming words of the chant.  The chorus sped up, his hands quickened, she yelled to the lyrics.  Then the bass dropped, the song climaxed, and a tear rolled down her cheek.  She pushed away, but he held forcefully, like the loud beat of the song.
The melody rolled back with a second verse.  The bass thumped through the man and his fists thumped her arm.  She screamed with the electric guitar’s screech, and shook her head to the drums distinct pounds.  He rushed in again with another fast paced chorus, loud and strong.  Words poured out of the song, poured into him, into her, her.  She flinched at each drum hit.  Again the song sped up, and his grip held tighter.  Higher, louder, stronger - the song increased, the man controlled her.  The bass dropped again and she grimaced, tears streaming down her cheeks.  His hands, his body, the beat, they all moved with rhythmic precision and persistent force. 
The song slowed and their heavy breathing exhaled with the piano’s long synthesized chords.  The drums quieted, the bass was dulled.  It seemed to have ended.  Then the drums drilled a beat, the guitar strummed a chord, and the two danced again.  A final chorus began, louder and harder than before.  His hands slid along her, the electric guitar slid up to a high blare. The song quickened.  He moved with speed.  The song, the dance, the two - all joined together in a desperate finale of drums running up and down the beat, skin sliding past each other, guitars belting out piercing notes, tears flowing like splattered paint, and words, words digging deeper into the song, deeper into her, deeper. 
The song slowed, dimmed, ended.  The man left.  She stays standing motionless in the empty house, now quiet and echoless.  Her naked skin sinks to the cold floor and her pink cheeks stain with drying tears.  The music was silent, and it would never let her forget.