Friday, February 15, 2019

The Piano’s Song

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    Estimated reading time — 2 minutes

    She sits upright before us, like a tree trunk still and dynamic, and her frail fingers are placed alert on the ivory. Her old lungs fill and release once as the room slowly revolves around. We are dark icy planets to her sun. Then patiently, softly, from somewhere deep down in the black wood there forms a melody. It’s caramel. It burrows down into our bodies and paralyzes us; it’s like warm, sedative water poured slowly down our necks – it trickles down our spine, earthly and heavenly, easing red knotted muscles, spreading its nirvana everywhere. The room melts a little, the clocks slow a little. And she sits resolute. Her eyes are closed and her fingers dance like spiders over the small black and white keys of the piano. Does she know her power? Does she hear her Sirens’ sound? Or is it only her fingers who could understand?… is it such that the entirety of her grace is reserved solely for the gods and clouds above?

    She has us so fully in her grasp – so deep in this euphoria that we dare not move when, after the sweet song fades into nonexistence, she opens her eyes. She scans the room, counts our heads with her bony finger, and smiles. Then she returns to the keys. With yet another all-encompassing breath, she sets her fingers free on the instrument.

    The tune begins like spring; tiny pale flowers open wide and silver streams flow crisp and cool. A dazzling mountain breeze sweeps over our shoulders and we are free, oh so free, flying through the night… But, despite our earnest effort to ignore it, something is wrong. Something has been corrupted. A missed note?

    No, there lurks something monstrous here – something ugly and black and hidden like a tumor. She peers out at her audience, that witchy smile burning bright upon her face. We feel the music ooze through our veins. It’s overpowering. We feel it enter our chest, slip into the heart. We feel it thicken. It stings. It hurts. Every organ fights the corruption. But it’s too late. It’s too late… Our blood becomes ice.

    As our minds dissolve away, we hear the song’s unending glory; we feel the twist of its dagger in our backs. We see the witch’s cold hands stretching out to ravage our souls – and we taste the red smoke of hell… Away into the darkness the sweet music takes us.

    Credit To – Nate C.

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