I was a prisoner of consciousness; her's and mine, the minute I looked too deep. I looked at myself through her eyes: a skinny adolescent in loose clothing, barefoot, the wielder of an instrument of supernatural beauty. She looked at herself through my eyes: the unexpected audience, tall and covered in moonlight, wielder of eyes.
For the first time, she spoke: "Your instrument. I wish it."
Holding hands, we walked. My feet stuck and slipped with sweat, but she was silent. But her mind was anything but silent. It swirled and twisted and writhed within her skull. It blazed across the metal plating on her face like a tempest, dipping into her limbs as she took action.
Her fingers touched the lid, tentatively at first, but then she leaned across it, draping her body against the cool wood. She inhaled the lingering polish fumes, examining their scent.
"For you?" She gestured towards the keys. I nodded and let go of her hand. She descended upon the ivory, the metal tips of her fingers gentle against the instrument. Still standing, she pressed a single finger on the highest note. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating as the note rang out through the room. She repeated this with every note, flinching delicately at each one.
I longed to be back inside her mind. It wasn't just fascinating. It was intoxicating.
I reached out to touch her. The fleshy tips of my own fingers brushed at the fabric covering her lower body. It rippled like water at my touch, parting-
"Must not!" She whirled around and snatched my hand away from her skirts. Her eyes narrowed, our connected minds probing me for any indication of horror, deceit, or anger. When she found none, she returned one hand to the piano, pulling both of us onto the piano stool.
"It's a piano." I whispered, finding my voice.
"Piano." She repeated. My right hand clasped in her vice-like left, I pressed my remaining fingers into a soft, low chord. She responded with a trickle of higher notes. I returned three chords, and so it continued.
Her metal-tipped fingers gouged my palm. I felt my blood lubricate our fingers.
She stopped playing and turned to face me. Her hand left mine, her pale skin darkened with my blood. Her other hand grasped my bleeding hand and raised it to her face. She cocked her head in curiosity, her lips thinning with concern and amusement conversely. She placed my palm back in my lap with apologetic eyes.
The connection cut, she raised her own right hand and drew a line down the palm. Thin, dark liquid streamed out of the gash. Concerned, I seized her hand and wrapped it in the hem of my shirt, trying to stem the bleeding. She let me, watching.
We sat still, as small pricks of pain erupted in each of our minds. They gathered in the centre, where they touched and amplified. The pain from my hand spread up, shattering my arm and my shoulder, seeping into my torso and legs and welling up into my head.
Her cool arm encircled my head, and it ceased.
