Tuent sat still, upright with his eyes tightly shut, his mind wandering elsewhere. His fingers stayed where they seemed to be glued to the spot, grazing gracefully over the stone white keys. The melody of his music filled the air, low yet soft, flowing prominently through his ears. Though not his ears alone, for his companion, who stood at his door, staring. Stretching his long, pale fingers to reach various keys to play a confident chord, he hasn't noticed his mate’s presence at all. Instead, he was engaged on sensing the numb vibrations of the assorted notes throughout his emaciated body. Alois watched, almost hypnotized by the show. The musician was a master of his art form. The man obscured everything else, all existence fully vanishing except for his and his alone. A silhouette moving on its own accord, giving life to a striking masterpiece with fingers like mysterious phantoms, melodious, elegant – it was like watching the manifestation of world peace. Half way through the song, Alois frowned, but not because he didn’t like the song. He could understand when someone other than him had awe-inspiring talents. It’s just that his presence was being ignored. So he walked through the open door, still scowling, to stand behind the musician. Tuent appeared as incredibly tuned out as he looked. His gentle, yet mature facial features were rather tranquil, though he was concentrating, who knows how hard, on the piano. Alois reached out not caring whether or not he’ll interrupt friend’s thoughts when he grabbed his hand. He did interrupt, by the way, and gained a more than confused glare. He tried for his most innocent smile which looked like a smirk to Tuent’s eyes.
“Let me show you this,” Alois said.
He reached over and held both of the pianist’s hands in his own. The appendages now hovered over the piano keys and Tuent gasped a little after realizing what the other gentleman was doing. Confusion couldn’t describe the feeling he got as his fingers were led by Alois along the keys: the correct keys. The familiar melody played again, a continuation of his interrupted song. Each tone was correct and loud, though slower that before, but still the same song, the same beauty. He stood leaning over the pianist’s sitting figure, his breath tickling the musician’s neck with a tentative care.
Alois was a thirty-five year old self-assured gentleman when he acquired an affordable residence in the innermost London. His neighbor turned out to be a diffident composer Tuent. He was a thirty-two year old, a slender, if not willowy, man, slightly higher than six feet and rather quiet, yet emotional. Almost immediately, the musician and the young lad grew to be friends and close companions. Alois was his inspiration, his indisputable muse. He would sit there, in the music room, and listen to soul mate’s passionate compositions, examining his slim and long fingers trembling over the keys. That is, until the day Alois opened the door and stated that the departure time has crept over their warm bond: “Adele and I are moving out to East London.”
“Pardon me?” Tuent looked up from the keys and glanced at his escort standing by the door. Everyone stands by the door as if they are afraid to disturb him. But what is the point of music if it isn’t listened to? Alois backed up nervously as the musician looked at him, but he waved him in. The younger male lowered his head and avowed.
“I will never see you again.” Alois glanced at friend’s grand piano. Before he could truly even comprehend it, Tuent’s fingers were on the keys again. The song was glum and, frankly, heartrending. The chords were like grief-stricken tears flowing down the pale cheeks. But the rhythm was steady, continuing forward, never letting the minor chords to dominate. The notes augmented from the minor position to build into robust, unyielding ramparts of major chords. As any musical composition that crescendos in the middle must, however, begin to decrescendo. The aphasic deportment gave way to reality and as he played the last few trills and triplets, the dawdling beat was still there, stable and ever invasive. Lastly, the beat was all that was present. The recital ended and the fairytale was broken.
“I presume you will never hear me play again.”
“Tuent,” the younger male frowned, “You know that by no means I wish to leave you. Nonetheless, we believe that East London is a matchless place to settle and create a family in. Adele and I will visit you in a few hours to say good bye.”
For as long as Tuent could remember, music has been his sanctuary. It was his blood, his existence, his air, and by no means in the course of his life had the pianist been without a tune in his psyche, a rhythm in his hands. That is, until a few minutes ago. Without a word of warning, his muse is about to disappear, abruptly and without clarification, grudging Tuent of musical stimulation.
With a vast wave of feelings, his fingers raced up and down the piano keys, hitting them just the right way to have the instrument explode with the volume of the notes but still hold their chaste sound, their full strength. It was not just like any other composition played by Tuent. These notes screamed, they moaned, they cursed, and they were out for blood. They gave battle cries so low and deep. They would rebound inside the ribcage. They screeched at such high pitches they were like arrows piercing through the eardrum. Adele did not know they were out for her blood. Finally, a shriek of abhorrence escaped from Tuent’s lips and his fingers gave into a pure rage slamming against the keys. The instrument cried in response, making a noise as if it was dying. Almost instantly he stood up and glowered.
Tuent sighed, crutching up his glasses with the blade of his slim palm, before gifting a yearning gaze to the graceful blistered instrument of his affections. The pianist’s eyes nibbled over the hefty jet-black grand piano that he will not lay a hand on anymore. Playing it or not, he adjudged, he had to keep it tuned. As though the idea triggered destiny itself, Tuent’s efforts to tune the piano were unexpectedly disrupted, the newly distressed wire bursting loudly in his hands with a revolting ‘twang’, provoking him from the ominous thoughts. Tuent’s face clouded, and it took all his will not to lift something heavy and blunt to his most prized possession. Luckily, he had more wire on hand, but that fact alone did little to stave his anger.
“Good morning.” the feminine voice caught the musician by surprise. His head jerked up, skull connecting with the piano cover and resulting in a loud, painful ‘crack.’ Letting out a low hiss of exasperation, Tuent took a few hasty steps back, rubbing his head as he turned towards the pale blonde woman who had silently entered the room.
“My apologies, sir, are you alright?” The monotone voice and the jaded expression on the young woman’s face contrasted with the anticipated concern.
“Fine; I’m fine,” he said, irritated a bit too easily by the friend’s fiancée’s mere presence. He added more pressure to the bruise forming on his head as he turned away from the large instrument, chagrined that there had been a witness to his private despair. The world should just leave him to be alone with his passion, even if it was currently at a stand still. The male could feel his nerves being grated upon the longer she stayed in the room, but always trying to be civil rather than snapping. Before he knew what he was doing, he was pulling on the thin but strong wire, pulling it flushes against the others neck. Adele didn’t have much time to react, barely managing to gasp and raise a hand towards her throat before the force behind the instrument wire caused the thin skin of her neck to break. Neither of them noticed, in fact, until the wire was slicing through the skin, through the muscle, abruptly stopping on bone due to the untrained hand of the wielder, the wire not quite landing between vertebrae.
The musician felt himself exhale in incredulity, blinking, before he gave up the pressure, pulled the bloodied piano wire out of the Adele’s throat, and stepped back, every motion embroidered and leisurely to his traumatized mind. The brittle frame of the female crumpled to its lap, diminishing onward onto the hardwood. Her head fell to the side, wide ice-colored eyes wandering up to him, gazing at him with a soundless fusion of disbelief, desolation, and anxiety. Her lips gaped weakly, her throat letting out a tiny, feeble gurgle, before the life left those eyes, rolling back into her skull. Tuent found himself staring down at the corpse mind utterly blank with a sort of numb horror. But, just then, he finally felt what he’d been wanting for the past days. A soft tune buzzed throughout his head; his muse had given him something to play.
“Let me show you this,” Alois said.
He reached over and held both of the pianist’s hands in his own. The appendages now hovered over the piano keys and Tuent gasped a little after realizing what the other gentleman was doing. Confusion couldn’t describe the feeling he got as his fingers were led by Alois along the keys: the correct keys. The familiar melody played again, a continuation of his interrupted song. Each tone was correct and loud, though slower that before, but still the same song, the same beauty. He stood leaning over the pianist’s sitting figure, his breath tickling the musician’s neck with a tentative care.
Alois was a thirty-five year old self-assured gentleman when he acquired an affordable residence in the innermost London. His neighbor turned out to be a diffident composer Tuent. He was a thirty-two year old, a slender, if not willowy, man, slightly higher than six feet and rather quiet, yet emotional. Almost immediately, the musician and the young lad grew to be friends and close companions. Alois was his inspiration, his indisputable muse. He would sit there, in the music room, and listen to soul mate’s passionate compositions, examining his slim and long fingers trembling over the keys. That is, until the day Alois opened the door and stated that the departure time has crept over their warm bond: “Adele and I are moving out to East London.”
“Pardon me?” Tuent looked up from the keys and glanced at his escort standing by the door. Everyone stands by the door as if they are afraid to disturb him. But what is the point of music if it isn’t listened to? Alois backed up nervously as the musician looked at him, but he waved him in. The younger male lowered his head and avowed.
“I will never see you again.” Alois glanced at friend’s grand piano. Before he could truly even comprehend it, Tuent’s fingers were on the keys again. The song was glum and, frankly, heartrending. The chords were like grief-stricken tears flowing down the pale cheeks. But the rhythm was steady, continuing forward, never letting the minor chords to dominate. The notes augmented from the minor position to build into robust, unyielding ramparts of major chords. As any musical composition that crescendos in the middle must, however, begin to decrescendo. The aphasic deportment gave way to reality and as he played the last few trills and triplets, the dawdling beat was still there, stable and ever invasive. Lastly, the beat was all that was present. The recital ended and the fairytale was broken.
“I presume you will never hear me play again.”
“Tuent,” the younger male frowned, “You know that by no means I wish to leave you. Nonetheless, we believe that East London is a matchless place to settle and create a family in. Adele and I will visit you in a few hours to say good bye.”
For as long as Tuent could remember, music has been his sanctuary. It was his blood, his existence, his air, and by no means in the course of his life had the pianist been without a tune in his psyche, a rhythm in his hands. That is, until a few minutes ago. Without a word of warning, his muse is about to disappear, abruptly and without clarification, grudging Tuent of musical stimulation.
With a vast wave of feelings, his fingers raced up and down the piano keys, hitting them just the right way to have the instrument explode with the volume of the notes but still hold their chaste sound, their full strength. It was not just like any other composition played by Tuent. These notes screamed, they moaned, they cursed, and they were out for blood. They gave battle cries so low and deep. They would rebound inside the ribcage. They screeched at such high pitches they were like arrows piercing through the eardrum. Adele did not know they were out for her blood. Finally, a shriek of abhorrence escaped from Tuent’s lips and his fingers gave into a pure rage slamming against the keys. The instrument cried in response, making a noise as if it was dying. Almost instantly he stood up and glowered.
Tuent sighed, crutching up his glasses with the blade of his slim palm, before gifting a yearning gaze to the graceful blistered instrument of his affections. The pianist’s eyes nibbled over the hefty jet-black grand piano that he will not lay a hand on anymore. Playing it or not, he adjudged, he had to keep it tuned. As though the idea triggered destiny itself, Tuent’s efforts to tune the piano were unexpectedly disrupted, the newly distressed wire bursting loudly in his hands with a revolting ‘twang’, provoking him from the ominous thoughts. Tuent’s face clouded, and it took all his will not to lift something heavy and blunt to his most prized possession. Luckily, he had more wire on hand, but that fact alone did little to stave his anger.
“Good morning.” the feminine voice caught the musician by surprise. His head jerked up, skull connecting with the piano cover and resulting in a loud, painful ‘crack.’ Letting out a low hiss of exasperation, Tuent took a few hasty steps back, rubbing his head as he turned towards the pale blonde woman who had silently entered the room.
“My apologies, sir, are you alright?” The monotone voice and the jaded expression on the young woman’s face contrasted with the anticipated concern.
“Fine; I’m fine,” he said, irritated a bit too easily by the friend’s fiancée’s mere presence. He added more pressure to the bruise forming on his head as he turned away from the large instrument, chagrined that there had been a witness to his private despair. The world should just leave him to be alone with his passion, even if it was currently at a stand still. The male could feel his nerves being grated upon the longer she stayed in the room, but always trying to be civil rather than snapping. Before he knew what he was doing, he was pulling on the thin but strong wire, pulling it flushes against the others neck. Adele didn’t have much time to react, barely managing to gasp and raise a hand towards her throat before the force behind the instrument wire caused the thin skin of her neck to break. Neither of them noticed, in fact, until the wire was slicing through the skin, through the muscle, abruptly stopping on bone due to the untrained hand of the wielder, the wire not quite landing between vertebrae.
The musician felt himself exhale in incredulity, blinking, before he gave up the pressure, pulled the bloodied piano wire out of the Adele’s throat, and stepped back, every motion embroidered and leisurely to his traumatized mind. The brittle frame of the female crumpled to its lap, diminishing onward onto the hardwood. Her head fell to the side, wide ice-colored eyes wandering up to him, gazing at him with a soundless fusion of disbelief, desolation, and anxiety. Her lips gaped weakly, her throat letting out a tiny, feeble gurgle, before the life left those eyes, rolling back into her skull. Tuent found himself staring down at the corpse mind utterly blank with a sort of numb horror. But, just then, he finally felt what he’d been wanting for the past days. A soft tune buzzed throughout his head; his muse had given him something to play.
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