Sympathy for the Soul

"He sits, hunched up and alone-"
He doesn't know why. Only the voices of those taunts and the melodies of the piano can sing him to peace. He doesn't know why he's here, he only knows that he'll never be free, and he cannot ever escape.

He sits, hunched up and alone, his gaze faraway and lost in the land of dreams where he is untouchable, his perfect place, framed with the bittersweet melodies he has never glimpsed, tasted, or touched. Like the ledger lines have merged and become one, he drifts back and forth between treble and bass clefs, figuring out the fingering for himself, before his shaky fingers gently caress the piano.

It lies in front of him, the black and white keys: the black and white teeth of music both beastly and so,so beautiful. This instrument was the key, the key to his spiralling happiness, as his immediate downfall. His hands are shaking, and he knows why. He cannot bring himself to say why he is here, in this place, surrounded by white walls and pristine floors, and if he could get away, even if for a few minutes, he would be happy.

His fingers reach for those sleek black and white keys, long and slender fingers ready for his dance with the seducing devil. He is slightly uncertain, but the sheer second his fingers graze those keys, the keys to his solace, everything melts away, the haunting reasons as to why he cannot leave this madhouse, filled with freaks like him... the callous touch inside him blows out like a candle. A tentative and gentle beat overcomes his frame, filling his hazel eyes with a longing he could never control, a sweeping thump…. thump…. thump…His ears register a change in the tempo and his fingers begin into a piece of music that could take him anywhere, away from here.

Where the music takes him, no-one knows, and that is enough, since it is the only thing he can own here. Only he can fight for it here. Only him.

He changes the key, goes flat for a change, his mind forging a battle with what he should do next. Calm down, he reminds himself. He isn’t in front of an audience, not now, not anymore His fingers willingly obey the warmth he feels at the revelation, and the atmosphere swiftly changes to an almost peaceful, but still eerie shadow, of what may or may not come. The room he sits in echoes the sounds of the rising keys and he decides to play with the acoustics in the space around him.

He feels the sudden desire to create a high-pitched, screechy melody, two hands two octaves apart, which would blow the ceiling off of the space he feels deep inside his heart. Ah, if the world could come crashing down around him, splinters of glass cutting his snow white skin, like it once had many days, weeks, months, years ago. If only he could feel that again, then maybe all of this would be worth something in the end. If he himself is not allowed to howl for mercy, at least his piano could do it for him.

It is too calm, too quiet, too relaxed. It isn’t like him. He isn’t a calm man. Already he can feel his heartbeat pick up in intensity as he plucks and hammers at the keys. He is not a calm or quiet man. He is evil, as evil as the depths of the imagination could go. He wants to cry as his fingers dance with the catastrophe taking place in his mind. All the suffering and sadness heightens his senses, his deep wish to no longer be here- to no longer be able to breathe.

Linux can hear the blessed sound of his own world crashing to the ground, and he can picture it in his mind. He closes his eyes, and imagines he is standing on the edge of a cliff, fragments of glass glittering around him, in front of his own looming cataclysm, cracked raindrops spearing his mind, his body, his soul. Linux’s mind could picture it, his whole body could feel it, and his tongue could taste the dark remnants of his deranged mind. The blurry sounds in his mind mingled perfectly with the imperfect song on his fingertips. The chords on the piano continued to flourish along with the deep pain he felt in his chest, right next to the beating organ that kept him alive. It is like,he thought, being shackled to the ground with no-one to hear your screams.Of course, no-one was here to hear his screams, or to even listen to him in the first place. They all judged him by looking at his curly blond hair, and tortured hazel eyes, his trembling hands, his bent posture, the twitch of his mouth, the hasty way he rubbed at his neck.

Wasn’t it obvious he wasn’t normal? It was like the non-existent piano pages in front of him, racing past him frantically as his fingers searched for where they should go, what notes were next. He didn’t own the music. The music owned him. He was an outsider to anything he played. He put feeling into everything he done, but it was still not enough.

Linux is tired. He is tired of constantly trying to leave his emotions out to dry over the sleek cover of the piano. Tired of trying to keep up with the music that had steadily spilt out of his head, his ears, his broken heart. He took a deep breath, as he slowed down his right hand, and then his left. There was nothing more he could give. He gave his soul, and all he received in return was an emptiness he never wanted. No happiness, nothing. All he was left with now, was the dimming sound of silence as the white room, with its immaculate white walls, engulfed him in the taunts he easily heard in his mind.

The End

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