He was dressed impeccably. The tie matched his suit perfectly, his shoes polished to a high shine. He had taken care to bathe and shave today, something he didn't always do. His remaining white hair was combed straight back onto his head, and a rose was inserted into his lapel. She always did love roses, and tonight was going to be special. Ignoring the pounding on the boarded up windows, he limped to the kitchen on his arthritic knees. With an unsteady hand, he rolled through the stations on the ancient Zenith radio, searching for some music. As usual, most of the stations were talk. Whatever they were saying, it was of no concern to him anymore. It was his anniversary.

Dinner was an exquisite affair. He had pulled out all the stops. The roast had been perfect, the vegetables steamed to just the right moment, and for dessert, chocolate mousse. His hands had protested during the preparation, but the results made the sharp pain seem worth it. His wife of 46 years sat at the other end of the table, also dressed in her best. They sat quietly afterward, he drumming his fingers against the tabletop, she staring at the ceiling. The pounding on the windows continued, but he hardly seemed to notice.

After sitting in silence for minutes, he stood up and stretched his ancient body. Muscles and tendons stretched, and he was rewarded with several sharp pains running up his spine. He searched the room for something to do, his eyes finally settling on the piano in the corner. He leaned across the table and kissed his wife on the cheek, and declared that he was going to serenade her. Slowly, he walked to the grand piano, concentrating on the task at hand. He hardly even registered the glass break and the arms that came through the wooden slats of the window behind him.

Settling onto the bench, he cracked his knuckles with a flourish, and began to play. And play he did! Notes that cascaded like a steam, rose like a bird, and gently fell like leaves from trees. He played with a passion that most would never know, the same passion that had garnered him numerous awards, countless performances, and ovations worldwide.

The notes flowed out of him. He didn't even need to concentrate anymore, for these compositions were like second nature to him. Occasionally, he would wink at his wife, and smile, as if to say 'you're still my girl'. He played for hours, stopping only at the end of a song, then launched into another immediately. He was immersed in his own world.

He heard the windows give way, saw the lumbering forms climb in to the house. Yet he did not stop playing. He saw the forms advance across the room, yet he played on. And even when they fell upon him, he continued.

The first bite was his left ear. He felt a dryness upon his face, a sudden twinge, and then the majority of his ear was gone. The blood running down his face was a distraction, to be sure, but he imagined it to be sweat and continued playing. The next attack was his lower arm, right by the elbow. The mouth came away with a chunk of suit, shirt and flesh. This staggered his rhythm, but he played on. He continued to play, for there was still breath in his body.

The attacks became more frequent now, as more of them breached the house. The blood flowed freely from his body, and he knew that he couldn't hold out much longer. He played on with one hand, for the other was now missing 3 fingers, and the thumb was currently being chewed off. He continued to play, but his fingers now just moved randomly and spastically across the keyboard, producing a horrible jangle of notes.

The mob overwhelmed him, and dragged him to the floor. His vision turned pink, as blood flowed into his remaining eye. The pain was excruciating, but it began to fade. He watched, dreamlike, as his right arm was torn from his body and dragged away. He attempted to talk to his wife, but found a dirty hand tugging at his tongue. Not able to speak, he managed to wink one last time. His dying thoughts were of his wife, and how beautiful she looked. He had selected her clothes, bathed her, made her up, and dressed her this evening, and he had done a fine job. The only noticeable exception was the bullet hole over her left eye. He had tried to cover it with makeup, but the hole was still quite visible, the giant crater in the back of her head even more so.

The nightmare began to blur, and soon all he could see were shadows, moving awkwardly. The noises emanating from the mob reached a crescendo. Soon, he would join his wife again. His end was now, and he couldn't have been any happier.