I took a breath and stepped back as his eyes searched mine. I could feel a blush reach my cheeks as he gave me that cold, calculating look. It softened for a moment as he beckoned me forward again. I came over and he moved over in the seat so i could sit next to him.
"watch," He played for a moment, a simple, slow tune, then stopped, "Now you try." I looked up in confusion, but he just waited. "Again," he repeated the tune so I could pay closer attention to how to repeat it. I played a few notes before hitting the wrong key. His eyes tightened briefly before pointing out the right key. After a few repetitions I began to lose hope, and he patience. He winced every time I made a mistake and the notes became quicker as his vexation grew more and more apparent.
"Are you even paying attention?" he stopped and asked me at one point as I grew near tears.
"I'm sorry!" I cried, "I'm trying!"
"Try harder. From the beginning. Pay close attention to where my fingers are." I watched like my life depended on it, but I still couldn't seem to make it sound the way he did. After 2 hours of close observation and teaching, he bid me leave; "Go," he whispered, "We'll try again later." I stood up quickly, shame coloring my cheeks as I moved back toward the kitchen. The food he had made me sat cold on the table, abandoned in a moment of reverie. I heated it over the stove carefully and spooned the soft porridge and eggs into my mouth, trying not to cry as I ran over the practice in my mind. I had failed miserably in my first lesson, he would never call me again. I had disappointed him, what if I sent him back into his depression. Nausea filled my stomach at the thought. I listened to the music filtering through the kitchen door. It didn't seem sad. Maybe there was still hope. Maybe...
I stretched my fingers and continued as if the previous disaster on my esteem hadn't occurred. I had mistakenly led my self to believe that anyone, if taught by me, could be proficient in piano in a matter of hours. The years had tarnished memories of being taught how to play. It had seemed a natural action, like breathing, something I had been born with an innate ability. It felt like an arrow under my armor at just the wrong time. If I wanted to teach her, I knew I had to gain a great deal more patience. I sighed at the revelation. At least she could play well, no, perhaps not as proficient as I had been at her age, but she had potential. She definitely had potential...
Once the song had finished, I stood and stretched my back and arms, moving toward the window slowly. I watched the sun warily, a storm seemed imminent. I sighed slowly and returned to the piano, contemplating exactly how I wished to re-teach our last lesson. I flipped through the sheet music and settled on Ave Maria. It seemed simple enough, and once she learned to play she could sing the accompaniment as well. I began playing it slowly, softly to test how I wanted to present it. I remembered my own lessons as a child, the priest who had given me his name. I picked it up quickly, unnaturally quickly. That genius is what invited failure now. I had never learned but, rather, had always known to play, to sing. It seemed ironic, in a way, and I tried not to dwell on it. After a while, I called for her to return for another attempt at teaching her to play. But only silence answered.
"Bella?" I called, "Come here," she had never disobeyed me before, and a sense of dread came over me as I stood. I went in the kitchen as an ominous silence seemed to engulf the room. The rain pounded on the roof, and for a moment, something snapped.