This story has been on my mind since I first started writing fanfics. It's evolved from a dramatic story which I thought would make me a respected author on ff to well, I'm not particularly sure yet. I'm still muddling with it so opinions are very welcome.
Again, sorry to those who liked my old stories, but I don't see them going anywhere. I just came up with them because I wanted to gloat about having sotries on fanfiction. I wa later informed thats its apprently not something to be proud of, but whoever thinks that are annal, dickwads who don't have an imgaination.
Disclaimer: All characters, except the ones I ingeniously create, belong to Stephanie Meyer. I just mess with them.
Opens with a shot of a girl. She straddles the instrument. The smooth, wooden figure, almost human in the way it looks. Hands fluttering delicately over the fine strings. So much like her. Fragile with a sound. One so recognisable, excusing the need to speak.
She plays silence, but you hear it.
She talks silence, but you feel it.
The music speaks for her. The different speeds, notes and pitches. Why would one need vocalise when they could use something so much better, so much more beautiful.
She's playing pain. Long, quivering sounds and the low, low pitch. She's crying. Her back hunched and shaking. Music never lets her escape for long enough.
In a world plagued with voices, she plays silence. Hiding her pain behind a figure much like her own.
She finishes with a sharp pull of the strings. Screeching sounds vibrate the silence. Work boots thumping upstairs contrasting with pain, with hurt.
He pokes his head through, quietly observing. Not brave enough to console, but not coward enough to run.
Her hair, a curtain around her heart face swishes as she looks at him, reeling in the similarity between father and daughter.
" 'Night." He says. It's the only parting line that's comforting and truthful. He can't say sleep well. He can't say goodnight. There are no lies between father and daughter.
She's still playing, but softens, plucking now. Lighter, slower, affectionate. Andante Affettuoso. It's her goodnight for lack of better words.
"Love you." He mumbles, awkwardly scratching his moustache.
Silence. Pure silence. This time she does not respond, not even playing silence. There are no lies between father and daughter. Why would she start now?
AN/:All sorts of reviews and critisism welcome.