literature

Pianist- part I

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His fingertips kissed the keys of the piano as they ran over them, pale in the light of the moon, quick as if they were running spiders. Sometimes his fingers hardly used any force and he played the piano gentle, other times he had to use all the strength he possessed in his hands to lure the right sound out of the instrument. He played what he felt was right to play. Right now it was a lullaby, telling everyone who could hear it to sleep. He was restless, as was he always in the dead of night. During the witching hour he had to play as if his life depended on it, not even taking half a minute to pause. After he finished the lullaby he continued with another one, a song that reminded him of his youth. Years now lost, the only evidence that they ever existed stood on the wooden shelf, framed in as if it was a bird trying to escape. Even though the young man playing the piano was blind, he knew what there was to be seen on every photograph.
A long time ago he wasn't blind, you see. His then blue eyes looked at everything carefully, but most of the time they were focussed on the pet turtle he kept. He had called his pet Sam, after the uncle that he never met since the guy died long before he was born. Sam was everything to him. He took the pet everywhere he went in a wooden box. He and his sister used crayons to make the wood come alive, to make the box a real home for his turtle. Of course, that was before the accident, before the light in his eyes faded and before the blue of the sky turned milky white. It was then when he lost it all, but found what made him continue: music. Since his eyes were no longer of use to him, he had to use his other, now the most precious of his senses: his ears. During the time he was in the hospital his sister took old tapes with her on which she used to record music that made her feel. Not necessarily an emotion, just music that made her feel things. He started to love classical music: Erik Satie and Frédéric Chopin, the old masters of music. As soon as he came out of the hospital he went with his sister to a music store. There she bought him a second-hand piano, for neither of them had enough money to buy a new one. He played and played until he had blisters on his hands that weren't used to make music. His piano became his life. As he grew up, he almost did nothing else except for playing the melodies he loved the most. His sister wrote stories, and a few years ago a publisher agreed on publishing one of them. It became a huge success. Mary had always cared for her brother, so she made sure he could continue playing.
She bought him this house on the edge of the forest, near the town so he could still buy all the things he needed. With the new house came a new piano, a brand new one, still unfamiliar with the love of human hands.
Now the young men could play all day. Twelve years had passed since the accident, and still it was just as alive as the love in his heart for the art of music. All alone, playing until sunrise and probably beyond, until he was too tired to do it properly. The moonlight kissed his handsome face, the brown curls that were messy because he never took the time to put them in their right place on the top of his head. Mary visited him once a week, and stayed by him to listen to his music. She always told him that it gave her inspiration to write, that it was the thing that kept her writer's heart pounding. Now, in the silvery light of the night, the young men felt a bit lonely, without any friends and without a girl to care about. It was him and his music, and nothing else. He knew that, somewhere out there, there was a young woman waiting for him, but it just wasn't the time yet for her to appear in his life. If she did, than he would play his most precious melodies which he saved especially for her. His fingers paused for only five seconds before they started to play once more. It was an invitation to the world, but especially for that one special person: come, come and listen to what I have to offer. Come, and ease my feelings, make the life return to my cold face, and I'll offer you my heart in return. My heart, now only beating for the invisible world I create, but soon it'll pound for you. Come, and listen to the melodies that this lonely pianist repeats again and again. Come, and listen to the sound of my soul.
For everyone who actually read what I've written: thanks for reading! My friend ~magicalmariette came with an idea for a story. I've never tried a short story before, and I've also never written a story in English. This is part one, and part two will follow soon. Enjoy, and please leave a comment about what you guys think. I still need to learn a lot :)
Part II is up: [link]
Part III: [link]
Part IV: [link]
© 2011 - 2024 pingXgeertje
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magicalmariette's avatar
yayyayay you made my idea into a story! it's beautiful! maybe you could write a longer story from it, like a novel,.
I didn't know you could put my little idea into such a beautiful thing!