Born to an influential family of great music, she was an embarrassment due to her lack of talent. The problem was not the lack of talent or skill, but her precision. She was technically gifted, but her music had no feeling or passion. There was no depth to her music, merely the sound of it.
For years, she trained and practiced, but there was nothing. Her parents had become so embarrassed that her mother had committed suicide. Uta struggled with this, blaming herself and refocused her efforts. Still, there was no passion.
Her father drew further and further away. She was playing a concert that her father could not be bothered to attend, so disappointed was he in her lack of emotional dedication that he found other things to bring him joy. That joy was another woman who eventually killed him because he would not cover her gambling debts.
Alone and having no other connection to the world, Uta slowly gave up. Less and less of life had any meaning. Music never did. Her family had left her because she was unacceptable. She gave up.
Death has a way of coming that can be overlooked. A lack of interest in living does not necessitate an interest in death. But when one has no passions, not depths of emotion to spur on the life you live, then are you truly alive?
Uta died long before her body no longer drew breath. No food, no drink, no companions, there was mere existence but no life. She starved to death, the slowest, most painful form of suicide.
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