Apologies for the delay, should have known that I would not have any time on holiday to write. Okay, bit of a shorty here as I've split a very long chapter into two, but it does mean there should be another update in the not too distant future. Oh and apologies if there is any strange spelling, the 'h' key on my laptop isn't working properly!

Chapter 6

I spun around, a slight gasp falling from my lips at the sound of her voice. Damn it, how could she have overheard; I thought she was in the shower. "Ali?"

She ignored my platitude, crossing the kitchen and standing by the kettle; her back turned to me; spine stiff and erect. She had obviously had a quick wash before changing into her normal clothes; the dark blonde hair had been freed from its regulation bun to fall around her shoulders; a slight kink showing where it had been tightly bound.

"Tea?" Her voice was unnaturally high; as if emotions were being held under tight rein.

"Ali," I started again; trying to explain the comment I had made; but hesitated as I saw the shiver that ran through her body.

"One sugar isn't it?"

"Please let me explain?" I started, shifting Teresa's weight in my arms. The silence was deafening, she gave no indication that she wished to listen to me; did not even bother turning around, but snorted at my begging. "Ali please," I parroted her name again.

"Please what?" She spun around shouting. "Please let me mouth my pointless version of love, please let me break your fragile heart! God Eric! I was just starting to rebuild my life, just starting to feel vaguely normal and you have to bring love into the equation!"

I blinked at the viciousness of her attack, wanting to argue against her dibrate, but she was too wound up to notice.

"I hardly know you Eric, know nothing about you and yet you claim that you love me!" she continued, her breath coming in gasps as if the weight of the situation was crushing her. "How can you? You simply love an idea, in fact how can it be love? I'm just someone, somewhere to put all your suppressed emotions on."

"Suppressed emotions? I do not have suppressed emotions," I roared back, infuriated by her suggestions, irate at her rejection. Unsurprisingly, Teresa took one look at me and burst into tears, causing her mother to tear her from my arms, hugging the child closely to her chest.

"Eric," Ali tried to soothe her voice, although the clash of steel was still evident beneath it. "You have been through a hell of a lot, that much is obvious – just look at you! Now you are trying to piece your life back together and you realise that love is missing, so you pin that absent emotion on to the first woman who speaks to you. It is not love. You don't love me – I'm just satisfying a missing point in your humdrum existence."

I gulped at her pointed words. "You're wrong," I tried to match her calm tone, speaking quietly; not wanting to further upset the baby. "Ali, I see you as my friend – we are friends aren't we?" I held my breath and waited for her answer.

"Yes," It was the word I wanted to hear, even if its tone was sceptical.

"In my case friendship and admiration have grown, have become much more. I know what I am feeling."

"No, no you don't," she shook her head, the first waves of anger being replaced with tears that welled up in her blue eyes and spilled down her cheeks. I had to resist the urge to wipe them away. "You cannot, you should not."

"Why?" My voice was pleading, like a child denied a treat, any minute now I would start stamping my feet and yelling. It's not fair; I want her to love me.

"Eric, if you do love me it's doomed before it's even started. Everyone knows that two people who are thrown together in an odd situation cannot make dysfunctional relationships work. Please spare me the heartache and leave."

"What!"

"Leave, please, just go." The flow of tears grew harder and she buried her face into the soft downy hair on Tess' head, trying to hide them. I held out my hand in a final gesture of supplication, but she shook her head, refusing to talk.

The sudden weight bearing down on my chest was suffocating and the already tiny room drew in, making it even more claustrophobic. Without a word I turned on my heel and fled, away from the scene, away from the emotions that hung heavy in the air. Like I wounded dog I retreated; tail between my legs, the opposite of how I arrived, to the one place I could find peace, no matter what.

I don't remember how I got home, somehow my brain automatically took over and I returned my mother's car in one piece to an empty house. Thank heavens for small mercies; I could not stand my mother's presence at that moment, her well meaning, but annoying teasing; her unsubtle hint dropping.

I had almost forgotten what rejection felt like; how it caused the heart to wrench in pain; squeezing out every last tortured drop of emotion. Like its bedfellow; grief, it crept up and caught you in it's stranglehold before you had a chance to build up any defence; leaving you stumbling in its wake.

My recent battle had been with physical pain, but now mental anguish ran up and joined it, linking arms to further destroy my desire for peace. Ali's words reverberated in my brain, her mocking that I did not know what love was, my suppressed emotions. The thought almost made me yell with frustration and anger. For once I was trying to be honest and upfront, trying not to hide how I felt and look where it got be – well and truly spurned.

I stumbled upstairs, her words tumbling over themselves in my brain, combined with images of how I had seen her dancing, her lithe body in the leotard, the grace with which she moved. She doesn't love me! Her anger scared me; but it was her tears that had broken my heart. I could not understand how my simple comment could emote such a viscous reaction and a rejection that was so complete and final that there was no hope it would ever be revoked.

My goal was a room that I had not been into since my untimely return home. Like most of the Victorian houses in the street; the house spread from cellar to attic. It was the top floor that was my aim; where I sought refugee and yet as I stood at the bottom of the narrow staircase; I was unsure if I truly wanted to go up or not.

I slowly climbed the creaking staircase and pushed open the door, hesitant about what I would find behind it. This had once been my home; my den; my retreat, where I would hang out with my friends, compose music and spend most of my teenage years.

Dazzling sunshine, shining through the gabled windows hit me and I shaded my eyes against the white walls that reflected the light, before moving across the room and lowering the blinds slightly, standing back and drinking it all in.

Gone was the dark, lair like existence I had created in here, now it was clean and clear, my posters taken down, and the sheet music that had almost had a permanent home on the floor; neatly filed. The overstuffed sofa that had doubled as my bed many a night was neatly puffed and cleaned, before being draped with a throw to hide the worst stains of food and drink that had been ground into it over the years.

My music certificates that had always been carelessly thrown into folders were now simply framed and hung on the wall, starting with my first grade piano and progressing onto the various prizes and awards that I had won as my age and ability progressed.

I could see my mother's touch everywhere, the pride with which she had tided up and sorted the remnants of my life, the slightly touching but pathetic way she had ripped out certain articles written about me in magazines and hung them alongside my certificates.

Had I really shut my parents out of my life that much in the past few years? I had religiously spoken to them, letting them know my movements but had not really relished coming home to see them. It had always been awkward, driving down from London, sitting at the table, as I was force fed Sunday lunch; usually hungover from a party the night before, my mobile doing a silent dance in my pocket as friends; colleagues and clients demanded to know where I was.

A wave of guilt spread through me; dampening down the rejection that had taken over my body and I sunk onto the sofa; taking in the appearance of the room. Despite the cosmetic cleaning the most important items were still present. In front of the windows sat a rather old, battered grand piano. My first guitar was still resting in its case, propped against the bookshelf looking as if it were in conversation with the violin that was lying on top.

My music room was still complete. Granted, the instruments I had left here were worn and old. Anything of value had been taken with me to London and it was only the few items that had been too shabby to bother with that were left. But now they greeted me like old friends, beckoning me to come and make music with them; forget all my worries as I made them sing once more.

I had not dared to come up to the attic since my accident, scared that my limited movements would simply frustrate and annoy me. It was easier to ignore the need to make music then to find I was unable to. So I had not climbed the stairs for the past six months and it was only my mother who went up her, obviously to wallow in memories and do a bit of dusting.

But now, as I shrugged my coat off and sat at the piano, I felt the desire to compose and play flood through me. The jumpiness of my fingers, the craving to create music eclipsed anything else; even my love and desire for Ali; even the pain and hurt I felt at her rejection. My mistress was once again music.

My fingers were stiff as I first began to play and a few spasms of excruciating pain shot up my right arm as I moved my digits across the keys. But I could not care less about that – pain was a small price to play for the beauty of music and the noise that swelled under my fingers tips and poured out the piano contained all the pain, heartache and anguish that I felt.

I could have played for minutes, or hours and days. Time seemed an unimportant variable when I was immersed in my world. I did not hear my parent's return, or my mother calling me down for lunch. It did not matter, I was not hungry, for the music filled my soul – food was a rather boring necessity that came second.

I played until blisters were raised and weeping on the still fragile skin of my fingertips and blood seeped out around my fingernails. I had thrown off my sweater and sat in a t-shirt, for the exertion of playing had caused me to break out in a sweat and for the first time in ages I felt hot. Perspiration ran in an uncomfortable trickle down under my mask, but I ignored it. My straggly hair; uncut for months, fell into my eyes and I cursed eloquently as I was forced to stop and hunt for something to tie it back with.

It was only as the light started to fade that I was forced to slow down; to stop and look around me; take in my surroundings and come back down to earth. It was like sobering up after taking drugs – for the very air seemed to be filled with vibration; the lights dancing with energy. My head buzzed with exhaustion and a brief glance at my watch made me realise that I had been playing for nearly five hours – it was four o'clock.

Suddenly I was aware of the discomfort of my situation. My clothes were hot and sweaty against my skin. One arm was covered with tight pressure garments from shoulder to finger knuckle and across my chest and into a high-necked collar; complemented by a similar get up on my right leg. They sat uncomfortably on top of my damp sweating skin, needing to be changed for fresh garments.

Yet I paused for a second as I drunk in the sight of the sun setting over the top of the tree line, visible from the high window. Moving off the piano stool, feeling the ache in my legs as the blood rushed back into them, I moved over to the window. Pushing it open I leant out, wanting to feel the cool breeze of a late winter's evening. Instead my masked face felt nothing.

"Bugger," the words were bit out in frustration, for I needed the change in temperature to be my anchor, letting me return to the world I had temporarily left. Hesitantly, hearing the dire warnings of the doctors in my head, I reached up and undid the Velcro straps that pinned the mask around my head, before peeling the covering off. Holding it in my hand, I once again stuck my head out of the window, gasping at the shock of fresh cool air that flowed across my fragile skin.

The tingle of coolness as it hit the undamaged left side of my face was welcome, the feeling spreading across my skin to the harder rawness of the skin graft on the right. Here the temperature change burnt, prickles of heat like shards of glass embedded in my skin. Oh the irony of fulfilling a desire and finding it causes pain.

I turned away from the window and the spectacular sunset, my mask clutched in hand, feeling slightly calmer in mind. The past few hours had allowed me to let my emotions out; so that all the grief, pain and anger that I felt was now sitting on the music rack as a scribbled score. It was not in a viewable state and I doubted that on a first playback it would do no more then offend the listener's ears, but in my heart of hearts I knew for the first time I had created a truly unique and beautiful piece of music and Ali had been my muse and the drive behind it.

For the first time since the accident I felt at peace; despite the rejection of the morning, I knew where I was going. I wanted to compose again, wanted my music out there. No more scouring the world to find and nurture other people's talents. I had more then enough money to support myself now, why should I not indulge in my first love and simply write my own music? My name was well known enough within the music industry that people would listen out of curiosity alone, so the primary problem I had come up against when I was fresh and green from music school no longer existed.

I sat back down at the piano and picked up the pencil once again. With a grimace I noticed the blood that had seeped into the grain of the wood from my fingers. Appropriate that it is partially written in my blood. I leant over and with a flourish wrote the title on top of the page. 'Dance for Ali.'