Note: I had to submit a piece for my school's compilation of stories and I had recently watched Corpse Bride, so the idea popped into my head. Enjoy!
DISCLAIMER: Not
conceived of by me but written for the greater good.
The Pianist
Gracefully his fingers tread a somber dance upon the ivory keys. He sat down upon the bench with the finesse of a gentleman, his body swaying with the magic he was making. A slow, mournful tune was adorned with a lilting melody as the pianist expertly weaved body and soul together in wondrous, sad music. It came from his very heart. In his song he poured all his passion, his love, his outrage against society, his ennui at being able to do nothing against it. And dare she say it, fear?
He was a thin, pale man, with a face much accustomed to bouts of terror. His black hair was that of ebony night, and his long graceful fingers captivated her with the sound they made.
The music became more frantic, more soulful, as if he were screaming out his anger through the ivory keys. Faster and faster they danced with a fiery passion, while the pianist swayed ever with his music.
She marveled at the young pianist. How could he churn out my own feelings that roiled and stormed inside of her? How could he lay bare her deepest fears and her wildest dreams, ones that haunted her every night? How could he describe the fear she was in, about to marry a man she had never met before? She inched closer, she could not lose such beautiful music, so soon when she had just heard it.
Yet when he turned around, his fingers were so startled that his fingers ceased their dance and she was left alone in the silence except for his soft, contrite voice.
He had seen the piano in the house and had been drawn to its allure, pulled closer by the power it had over him. He sought its comfort in the music, he always had. Playing a few experimental notes, he sat down and drowned himself in his playing. He let his fingers run over the keys and they sought out a familiar tune, a song of heart wrenching sorrow that washed over him like the noontide.
He was a stranger to love. Indeed, love was forbidden in that day, an age of dull strictness and propriety. And now, his parents suddenly arranging a marriage to a girl he had hardly met before, he wanted to feel what love was like.
He heaved a dejected sigh as his hands fluttered over the keyboard. He had to stop soon, or else someone would hear him. Yet he could not resist. It was such an easy shelter there, to hide in his music. And slowly, as they always did, his soul was in his fingers and he was carried away. They seemed to come to life, to have a mind of their own. They no longer were piano keys and fingers; they had become real and living to him, he could sense their most intimate desires, caught up in beautiful world in which he was all alone. He had found no one to share it with. Or so he thought. For when he lifted his head he saw her standing behind him, entranced by his playing, and his world was shattered by the fright, his fluid, phantom friends solidified into reality, no more did his hands dance. The spell was broken, yet its magic still lingered in the air between them.
She took a step closer to him, her breath turning to mist in drafty, damp hall. She held out her hand, almost willing herself to believe that he, the pianist, was real. And in the split second before their hands touched, the world around her dissolved into mist, snatching the pianist away from her, engulfing him and pulling him away.