AN: Look! I'm back! I took a break from this site in an attempt to be productive (FAIL btw) and now I come back and everything is different. Have an angsty Blaine fic to make up for my absence. My friend originally used the idea for a project, but she said that I could take her work and alter it for my own nefarious purposes, so the credit also goes to her.
Warnings: Abuse, homophobic behaviour, language
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters. Title is borrowed from the same-titled song by Woodpigeon.
I was seven the first time I played the piano. I only played a few notes, but that was all it took. I was fascinated. How could something so big and bulky produce something so beautiful? The shimmering keys were mysterious and intriguing, the graceful melodies reached out and pulled me in. I was captivated. I immediately asked Mother to sign me up for lessons, and she complied. Even after I stopped taking lessons, piano was still a way to relax at the end of a stressful day.
So it was that I found myself seated on the piano bench on a cold January evening. The ivory keys were stretched out in front of me, waiting to take my stress and worries and turn them into elegant music. I let the harmonies wash over me, and the soft, mellow notes enveloping me in their warm embrace.
The door swung open as my father arrived home from work. His booming voice exploded and overpowered the piano as he started yelling. "...stupid people. I can't work in such conditions. I refuse to be surrounded by such brainless morons..." The floorboards creaked ached in agony as he moved into the kitchen.
"Blaine! I thought I told you to clean the dishes, and mop the floor. Can't you do anything right?"
My fingers continued moving across the piano as Father's words hammered my shoulders. I heard the soft whirring of the coffee maker, and the slam of cupboards as Father prepared a cup of coffee. I waited for his anger to taper off, trying to stay away from his temper.
"Blaine!" Father's voice was hard and cold. "What is this?" He entered the living room, a blue coffee mug in one hand, and my French test in the other.
"It's my French test, sir." My fingers continued playing.
"I can see that, you useless lump. What is the meaning of this?" He indicated to the red score in the top right hand corner. "An 84%? Are you stupid? I thought you were better than that."
"It's the highest mark in the class, sir." The gentle music was still emanating from the piano.
A sudden crash made me jump. Father had thrown his coffee mug at me. The cup hit the piano instead, the ceramic leaving deep scratches in the pure wood. Hot coffee spilled from the mug onto the keyboard, staining the ivory a repugnant yellow. I stopped playing, my fingers froze on top of the keys.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you, you ignorant brat. I don't care if it's the highest mark in the class! This mark is a disgrace. I'm ashamed to be associated with a stupid little fag like you!"
I bit my lip to stop myself from whimpering at the hurtful comments.
"Maybe if you spent more time studying instead of playing that foolish piano or hanging out with that other disgusting fairy, you wouldn't be so stupid!"
Before I could react, Father slammed the keyboard cover across my fingers. I couldn't stop myself from crying out as sharp pain shot up my hands. Tears blurred my vision, but I could vaguely make out the shape of Father as he left the house, the front door slamming shut behind him.
As gently as I could, I extracted my hands from underneath the heavy wood. I sobbed as the action caused new tendrils of pain to overwhelm me.
I staggered into the bathroom, and wrapped my hands with bandages, my movements clumsy and fumbling. With great difficulty, I opened a bottle of analgesics, and swallowed down some of the pills.
/
"Blaine, what happened to your hands?"
"I burned them on the stove."
I don't know why I lied, but I couldn't bring myself to speak the truth.
/
My hands slowly healed. The little finger on my left hand was bent slightly, but I refused to go to the hospital.
Father didn't speak to me anymore. He spent all his free time at work.
The piano remained standing in the living room. The deep gouges that marred its otherwise flawless surface were an ugly reminder of what had transpired.
/
The choir room at school used to be a safe haven. Nobody except the glee club ever went in there, and the piano had provided a refuge from the bustling school day.
The choir room was empty when I entered. I deposited my bag on the floor, and sat down at the piano. I rested my hands on the keyboard. They still ached, but I had removed the bandages.
I wanted to play, but something was stopping me. I wanted to let the music flow through me, guide my hands across the keys. I wanted to let the beautiful melodies fill the room once again.
Except it wasn't beautiful anymore. Something had changed. It was tainted. The elegant phrases were cracked and twisted, like my fingers. The harmonies had been scratched out and clawed through, the remaining notes producing a horrible and cacophonous sound. The graceful trills and arpeggios that used to bring so much joy were now stained lifeless and limp.
I don't know for how long I sat, staring at the piano, willing my fingers to move across the keys.
"Blaine?"
I looked up. Mr Schuester was standing in the door way.
"Are you going to play something?"
I turned from him back to the piano. My hands slid off the keyboard and on to my lap. I hesitated before standing up and grabbing my bag off the floor.
"No."
AN: Reviews are nice, but haikus are even nicer.