In Blue
"Put on your red shoes and dance the blues..." (David Bowie, "Let's Dance")
*****
Her fingers danced over the keys. Her touch was the only light thing about her.
It had felt good. Why had it felt good? All she had done was tear a piece of paper in two.
She who had no feeling itched to find the wastebasket, to tear the pieces into pieces and the pieces into smithereens. Why did it feel so good to destroy? It was a harmless piece of paper.
She who could not feel anything was blinded by an anger so complete it made her metal body shiver. Full of blinding hatred for this THING, this woman she did not know, who meant nothing to her. Why?
The anger ran through her like a beast, something warm and alive. Something furred and primitive, trying to escape through her mouth and fingers. She kept those fingers hard pressed to the keys, to keep it in. It was better to hide these alien feelings, as she had always done; better to express through the piano her undeserved pain. Much better than taking it out on an innocent business card.
She looked over at the wastebasket, and had there been blood in her body it would have rushed to her cheeks at her actions. What for? For something that she didn't even have to lose?
(No,) she decided. (This emotional state is not my thing. Why should I be sad for what I never had? Even these emotions are borrowed. They are just remnants, pieces of the real Dorothy that were soldered into me, tied with wire, imprinted on a chip.)
The piano felt the anger in the hard press of fingers that did not get to touch his face, run through his hair.
Why did he pray over the body of Solderno? Was there a god of some kind? Of course not. Silly humans, flinging their wishes and trust to a god who would leave a girl in THIS, this body, this hopeless form. This helpless form.
Prayer meant nothing. (My father, who art in hell, Wayneright be thy name...)
Father was a devil! How dare he leave her in this world, with this life! What was she supposed to do with it? Waltz around pretending she was the real Dorothy? Pretend that someone could love her, could treat her as an equal? Whose dreams were those?
She had no dreams. She was nothing. She was nothing but a robot. An imitation. A fake.
Was that Father's plan? Would he have watched her do such things if he had lived? Dream away her life? Someone else's dream? How would he have answered the inevitable questions she would have had? Would she have hated him so fiercely then, the way she hated him oh so fiercely now?
(...What kind of life is this?...)
The piano felt a softer touch now, a touch that would have perhaps been used to stroke across his cheek, to cup it and pull him in for a kiss. Perhaps a little lighter now, teasing, playful...
She took her hands away. That touch was not for anyone if not for him.
The emotions that she wasn't supposed to have had made her tired. Such a thing should have been impossible. The anger was replaced by something new--despair. She dragged her fingers along the keys. Who cared about her hands? He would never hold them in his own; never brush his lips across their backs. She would never have them on him, and that, as they said, was that.
He entered the room like the end of a day, weary-eyed and distant, mulling over past events of the afternoon. He frowned at her, like lightning splitting the sky.
"How many times do I have to tell you, it's no good to imitate us..." His expression softened, as if he were curious. "Why are you playing the blues?"
"Sometimes even I feel like playing them. Is there anything wrong with that?" (Do I not have even the pleasure of holding close my misery, that which would not betray me?)
He didn't answer; instead he walked closer to her, tapping his knuckles on the piano. "You know, you play pretty well for someone with no real problems."
(If only you knew. But you don't. I wish that it would change, but it won't, if you don't.) "How went the negotiations today?"
He smiled, and she tried not to look, for doing so would only cause her to squint in its light. "I came to terms with many things--a memory, a monster, and an angel."
"An angel?" There were no angels.
"I didn't know angels wore pink." He laughed. "I wonder what you would look like in pink."
Now she raised her head, fingers still mercilessly abusing the poor piano, the only one who knew.
"I look better in blue."
*****
I burned my hands on this story. I don't remember my initial plans for it, only that it came out a growl, surprising me.
Please review; I'm off to put on my red shoes...
"Put on your red shoes and dance the blues..." (David Bowie, "Let's Dance")
*****
Her fingers danced over the keys. Her touch was the only light thing about her.
It had felt good. Why had it felt good? All she had done was tear a piece of paper in two.
She who had no feeling itched to find the wastebasket, to tear the pieces into pieces and the pieces into smithereens. Why did it feel so good to destroy? It was a harmless piece of paper.
She who could not feel anything was blinded by an anger so complete it made her metal body shiver. Full of blinding hatred for this THING, this woman she did not know, who meant nothing to her. Why?
The anger ran through her like a beast, something warm and alive. Something furred and primitive, trying to escape through her mouth and fingers. She kept those fingers hard pressed to the keys, to keep it in. It was better to hide these alien feelings, as she had always done; better to express through the piano her undeserved pain. Much better than taking it out on an innocent business card.
She looked over at the wastebasket, and had there been blood in her body it would have rushed to her cheeks at her actions. What for? For something that she didn't even have to lose?
(No,) she decided. (This emotional state is not my thing. Why should I be sad for what I never had? Even these emotions are borrowed. They are just remnants, pieces of the real Dorothy that were soldered into me, tied with wire, imprinted on a chip.)
The piano felt the anger in the hard press of fingers that did not get to touch his face, run through his hair.
Why did he pray over the body of Solderno? Was there a god of some kind? Of course not. Silly humans, flinging their wishes and trust to a god who would leave a girl in THIS, this body, this hopeless form. This helpless form.
Prayer meant nothing. (My father, who art in hell, Wayneright be thy name...)
Father was a devil! How dare he leave her in this world, with this life! What was she supposed to do with it? Waltz around pretending she was the real Dorothy? Pretend that someone could love her, could treat her as an equal? Whose dreams were those?
She had no dreams. She was nothing. She was nothing but a robot. An imitation. A fake.
Was that Father's plan? Would he have watched her do such things if he had lived? Dream away her life? Someone else's dream? How would he have answered the inevitable questions she would have had? Would she have hated him so fiercely then, the way she hated him oh so fiercely now?
(...What kind of life is this?...)
The piano felt a softer touch now, a touch that would have perhaps been used to stroke across his cheek, to cup it and pull him in for a kiss. Perhaps a little lighter now, teasing, playful...
She took her hands away. That touch was not for anyone if not for him.
The emotions that she wasn't supposed to have had made her tired. Such a thing should have been impossible. The anger was replaced by something new--despair. She dragged her fingers along the keys. Who cared about her hands? He would never hold them in his own; never brush his lips across their backs. She would never have them on him, and that, as they said, was that.
He entered the room like the end of a day, weary-eyed and distant, mulling over past events of the afternoon. He frowned at her, like lightning splitting the sky.
"How many times do I have to tell you, it's no good to imitate us..." His expression softened, as if he were curious. "Why are you playing the blues?"
"Sometimes even I feel like playing them. Is there anything wrong with that?" (Do I not have even the pleasure of holding close my misery, that which would not betray me?)
He didn't answer; instead he walked closer to her, tapping his knuckles on the piano. "You know, you play pretty well for someone with no real problems."
(If only you knew. But you don't. I wish that it would change, but it won't, if you don't.) "How went the negotiations today?"
He smiled, and she tried not to look, for doing so would only cause her to squint in its light. "I came to terms with many things--a memory, a monster, and an angel."
"An angel?" There were no angels.
"I didn't know angels wore pink." He laughed. "I wonder what you would look like in pink."
Now she raised her head, fingers still mercilessly abusing the poor piano, the only one who knew.
"I look better in blue."
*****
I burned my hands on this story. I don't remember my initial plans for it, only that it came out a growl, surprising me.
Please review; I'm off to put on my red shoes...