His long, slender fingers flew over the black and white keys, his movements echoing his despair in a manner that only music could. Each chord that he struck rang true to a melody of a song only his heart recognised.
There was a time he had meant the world to a beautiful woman, a woman whom had meant the world to him. He ached to hold her head to his heart just once more, his fingers combing through her beautiful long hair. A single tear slid down his face and landed with a plop on a B flat. So heavy was his heart that he wondered it didn’t depress the key and render his playing futile: for surely nobody could hear beauty over such a heart-wrenching euphony?
Although he’d been right beside her, he hadn’t been able to save her. He would have given his life for her if it had meant allowing her to live. The bitterness of the knowledge ripped through him, again tearing the scab from a wound that would never heal. He’d never forget her face, or the last breath she’d taken. He’d resented the smudges around her eyes marring her perfect, ivory skin. The last tear her deep green eyes had shed had been for the loss of his love. And the last word she’d whispered had been his name.
The memory haunted him. Fervently trying to shake the path his thoughts were taking, he picked up a faster resonance, and his fingers streaked across the keys as they gave chase to his emotions. Sweat formed on his brow as he attempted yet again to release the outpouring of grief caged inside his chest. The music rang throughout the room, hardened by his angry chords, softened slightly by the love that he had no way of purging.
He allowed his emotions to wreak havoc with the piano until his arms felt like lead, his chest heaved and the lump in his throat ached with such ferocity that he feared he may vomit. He had nothing left, he was empty. Dropping his hands into his lap, the tears fell hot and fast down his face. There was perfect silence aside from his breath coming out in harsh exhalations.
The deafening applause startled him, and his back straightened in stupor. He’d forgotten where he was, momentarily lost in the moment. Turning his face from the audience, he mopped his face ferociously with the blot cloth at his side as he struggled to regain composure. For a moment he had been but a young man with a shattered heart. They’d all told him time would heal him: sadly, they’d been mistaken.
Semi-recomposed he stood, and bowed to the colossal room filled with standing people of all walks of life, many of them wiping at their eyes beneath the roar of applause. As always he felt humbled, and grateful for the gift that he held. If not for his gift, grief would have won a long time ago.
