[ Original: The Piano ]
Dec. 19th, 2004 12:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tacticianFandom: None
Genre: General
Warnings: Uneditted, nameless.
She has not played the piano in years and the bulky mass of painted ivory, wood and strings sits lonely in the corner of a faraway room. Her teacher has not said a word, but there is betrayal in her eyes every time they meet and when her sister goes to her lessons, the teacher makes subtle, hurt comments that are listened to, carefully remembered, and relayed back once at home.
It seems like a long time ago. It had been a passion; she used to practice for hours every day. It was entertaining; it made her heart sing and she was good. She copied little black notes on to pristine lined paper. She counted, “Every Good Boy Does Fine.” She cut her nails so that they would never clack. When other people saw, they clapped, they smiled, and they threw out careless words that should’ve been compliments but only piled up on her shoulders like sodden bricks until she could hardly stand.
One Saturday she stares silently at the phone, guilty and ashamed because she cannot pick it up and dial the almost-forgotten number. It has been years. She cannot say into the receiver that she’s sorry, but she couldn’t handle the pressure and that she apologizes, but she couldn’t deal with everyone giving her expectations she was forced to exceed. She has other passions now and during the weekdays it is only her sister that plays hauntingly familiar sonatas that her fingers still twitch in time to.
She stands, goes to the living room and runs her hand across the dusty black enamel. The key cover creaks when she lifts it; the seat groans in protest. She lays out her long fingers and curls them into little arcs. Alone in the house on a rainy morning, she plays and it is bad. Her fingers slip; she cannot remember the keys; the instrument is out of tune. The waltz is choppy and unrefined, but there are hints of an old elegance in the irregular music. Half-way through, she stops, breathes, frowns.
It has been years. She cannot even pick up the phone. Her sister plays. The teacher won't say a thing. It is useless, she tells herself, staring down at her flattened fingers and the growing nails. Leave it alone.
Genre: General
Warnings: Uneditted, nameless.
She has not played the piano in years and the bulky mass of painted ivory, wood and strings sits lonely in the corner of a faraway room. Her teacher has not said a word, but there is betrayal in her eyes every time they meet and when her sister goes to her lessons, the teacher makes subtle, hurt comments that are listened to, carefully remembered, and relayed back once at home.
It seems like a long time ago. It had been a passion; she used to practice for hours every day. It was entertaining; it made her heart sing and she was good. She copied little black notes on to pristine lined paper. She counted, “Every Good Boy Does Fine.” She cut her nails so that they would never clack. When other people saw, they clapped, they smiled, and they threw out careless words that should’ve been compliments but only piled up on her shoulders like sodden bricks until she could hardly stand.
One Saturday she stares silently at the phone, guilty and ashamed because she cannot pick it up and dial the almost-forgotten number. It has been years. She cannot say into the receiver that she’s sorry, but she couldn’t handle the pressure and that she apologizes, but she couldn’t deal with everyone giving her expectations she was forced to exceed. She has other passions now and during the weekdays it is only her sister that plays hauntingly familiar sonatas that her fingers still twitch in time to.
She stands, goes to the living room and runs her hand across the dusty black enamel. The key cover creaks when she lifts it; the seat groans in protest. She lays out her long fingers and curls them into little arcs. Alone in the house on a rainy morning, she plays and it is bad. Her fingers slip; she cannot remember the keys; the instrument is out of tune. The waltz is choppy and unrefined, but there are hints of an old elegance in the irregular music. Half-way through, she stops, breathes, frowns.
It has been years. She cannot even pick up the phone. Her sister plays. The teacher won't say a thing. It is useless, she tells herself, staring down at her flattened fingers and the growing nails. Leave it alone.