This little gem is dedicated to UltimateFanpire, whom I hope finds this fic even more disgusting than the last one that I wrote.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
There, at the piano
I listened to him
and if he began to play
I would hold my breath
Klavier
"Oh…oh, God."
His fingers dance over the keys of the piano, disturbing the fine coat of dust that had settled upon them. Notes rise into the air, gently breaking through the silence before crashing to the floor, shattering like clay pigeons. Blood drips, drips from the gash above his left eye, dark and hungry; drips onto the polished ivory—Snow White and Rose Red, together at last. He closes his eyes and plays on, sheet music obsolete. The memory of dark hair shining in moonlight, of bright eyes gazing into his tenderly, of nights; they invade his mind mercilessly. He plays louder.
The labored rattling of breath has ceased; the scrabbling of nails against the maple floors has ceased; the flow of blood has ceased. Thought, heart, soul has ceased. There is only the music now. Music could carry the soul away; that was what he had been told, what had been whispered to him in the parlor as he played, as long arms wrapped around his neck. Perhaps it would carry the soul that he had claimed tonight to a place better than this, a place far from here. A pity that his soul could not follow. His song softens as he eases his way into the second movement of the piece.
Edward…what have you DONE?"
Für Elise: a relatively simple piece for Edward. He had learned it shortly after arriving to his new home, and had played it until his fingers ached, cramped, refused to move. Until now, he had only played it when it was requested, late at night when the sounds of their love had ceased, when all that accompanied soft breathing was the sound of summer crickets and the wind in the trees. It was then that Edward had struggled out of bed, limping to his bench to play while a pair of strong hands gently relieved the pain that crept up his back. It was then that he looked slyly over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of that smile he had come to treasure more than anything: full lips curving over white teeth, eyes crinkling at the corners.
It was that smile that he would probably miss most; more than the touches, the arguments, the jealousy, the tears, the anxious days and the secret nights.
"Edward…what have you DONE?"
"I did it for you…I did it for YOU."
What a pitiful excuse of a lie it had been, but he hadn't known what to say when the door had flung open, when the shriek had echoed in the rafters, disturbed the doves nesting in the drainpipe. Edward had believed it at first; he had thought that it was the only way to escape the guilt in his heart. The plan had been so carefully orchestrated: the whole family was gone, lured away by some false crisis of his concoction; the authorities had caught a whiff of it and followed. It had been just him and his sin—and he had cut out the sin like a cancer. Now he realizes, as his graceful, skillful, fingers dance across the keyboard, as the blood leaves footprints on the white, that he had been so wrong. So terribly wrong. Now, he would pay the price. His fingers slow as the piece concludes, and the last of the notes smash against the floor. For the first time since he had slain the beast, he opens his eyes. The blood still trickling, a bead rolls into his left eye; the pain does not register. As he rises from the bench, flakes of dried blood fall to the leather upholstery, crackling as he walks toward the window.
He turns; his eyes scan the room, soaking in the destruction. It had been a fight to remember, that was for certain. Chairs and tables are overturned, broken and scarred with scratches. Bits and pieces of expensive vases are scattered across the floor; the slivers of porcelain crunch beneath his feet as he walks. The mirrors hanging here and there are shattered. He gazes into one, examines the segmented pieces of his face carefully: the heavy bags around his black eyes, the deep cut that had torn through his perfect pale flesh. He stares for a while before ripping the mirror off the wall altogether, flinging it out of his sight. It embeds itself into the front door
"I did it for you…Bella."
"Oh, God, no. No!"
Her car keys are still on the floor where she dropped them—she had ran away howling in despair, leaving her truck where it had been parked, next to a rotting stump. Her tears still held their spherical shape on the wood, reflecting the light of the moon that filtered through the window. A spider crack had formed in the glass; his head had been slammed into the pane of the window quite viciously. The silk curtains were shredded; the Oriental rug on the floor had been ripped to pieces. It was there on that rug the beast rested, the mangy, bloody beast that had somehow wormed its way into his heart.
Couldn't have that, now could we?
Oh, no.
"Oh, no!"
"Bella—"
"What in God's name have you done? He did NOTHING to you!"
Bella had been wrong, of course. He had done everything. It was only now that he did nothing but lay cold and lifeless on the ground. Again he sat at the piano, gazing down at it blankly. His sheet music lay scattered on the floor: Klavierkonzert #1, Beethoven. The notes were partially concealed by a large, bloody handprint. Edward kneels and closes his stiff, red fingers around the first page, carefully settling it on the stand before him. He would play again. The silence invited the ghosts; he would scare them away. His fingers furiously skate over the keys, propelling the notes into the air. He listens to them scream in the air around him as they fall to the floor. He listens to the screams as he tears the beast apart. He listens to his own howls, remembers how they seemed to harmonize with the beast as he thrashed about in his death throes. Vaguely, he hears sirens outside. The lights pierce his corneas, and he closes them slowly. The colors flash behind his lids.
Red.
Blue.
Red.
Blue.
Pain.
Black.
†††
This is what the police found in the Cullen house that night.
Edward had settled himself on the piano bench, his hands still poised over the keys as if relishing the last notes of a performance. His eyes were closed; his clothes were torn and stained with blood. A small smile turned up the corners of his mouth, an expression not unlike that of the peacefully dead. Ironically so. They subdued him without a fight, clubbing him over the head with the butt of a shattered lamp. On the floor was Jacob Black, lying in a pool of his own blood. The boy's ribcage was ripped apart, his heart missing, his lungs shreds. His eyes were closed and his face covered by his long, dark hair-thank God. The station's newest recruit vomited in a nearby ficus at the sight.
"God, Frank…" The intern wiped his mouth and returned to his companion's side. "I knew them Cullens were strange, but I had no idea they'd do something like this. Billy's gonna be crushed." The officer named Frank nodded, directing a pair of forensic scientists to the back of the house. They didn't need to be here; they had all the proof they needed against the Cullen boy.
"Ain't that the truth, though?" He knelt down and pulled a white latex glove over his left hand, ignoring the chafing of the talc inside. Gently, Frank pushed the boy's dark hair away from his face and shuddered.
"Hey, Frank, he's…smilin'.
He had known what was coming to him.
"Yeah. Smiling." He gulped and shook his head. "Get the girl. I want to know what she knows about them boys."
"But, Frank, the girl's hysterical. She's not speakin' any sense. All this bullshit about vamp-"
"Get her." The intern fled and Frank looked back at what was left of Jacob, shaking his head before letting the EMTs and the hospital orderlies do their job. He needed to get away from the death and buy a drink. Tomorrow would be hard; he was going to enjoy the rest of this night if he could. He heard the Swann girl sobbing in the cruiser, recounting her story to the weak-stomached intern. He willed himself to glance over at the unconscious Cullen boy, his eyes still peacefully closed, fluttering under long lashes.
The night dissolved into early morning, made the murderer's face shine in a spotlight of sun. Edward's performance was over, and the police, the fire department, Bella; they were his standing ovation.
Curtain falls.
There, at the piano
I stood beside him
it seemed
he played for me alone.
-Rammstein, "Klavier"