Creative Writing

The Piano Room

The piano stood in the corner of the room, casting black shadows on the wall. It was a real grand piano, made from fine wood with rich ivory keys. A young boy hunched over it, slender and pale. Sweet, sonorous tones swelled through the air as he played. His fingers were magical, wonderful, and they played beautiful, enchanting songs. Behind him towered a man, his father, austere and imposing. Gradually, the music came to an end, and the boy sighed. Sweat dripped down his brow, and he slumped in his chair. “Again!” Father commanded, his voice cold and emotionless. “But…” the boy began, but soon relented, and began to play, watchful, critical eyes following his every move. Father was a spiteful, cruel man, and he treated the boy poorly. He would spend his days in the study with him and the piano. On days like today, when his patience was short and his temper ran hot, he would fly into fits of rage, threatening and abusing the boy. He watched him play intently. Lush notes filled the room, interrupted by shouting.

It wasn’t a particularly well-appointed room. It stood at the top of the equally unimpressive house, a lone window connecting it to the world below. Most passed it by without so much as a glance: it seemed normal enough. The boy knew better, through. The room was a prison, and every stroke of the keys pounded nails into its bars. The boy was trapped, a slave to his father’s obsessive ambitions. As he played, he looked out of the window. He watched the children run upon the sun-lit fields and he longed to be with them, to feel the warmth against his skin. He longed to be free, to be human. Still, he kept playing.  The thought of Father’s punishment was enough to keep him plodding over the keys. The joy of playing had dissipated long ago, cast off with the lashings of Father’s tongue. His gaze was robotic, lifeless. His fingers were primitive tools, hammering mechanically on the keys. Father swirled like a storm around him, berating him, roaring in anger. “You’ll never be good enough!” he snarled, the boy choking back tears as he played. Cowering, he continued playing. He mustered a few notes before the next insult was hurled. Father was a despot, dominating his lone subject. There was nothing the boy could do. The room was a separate world, isolated from reality. The walls closed in on him with every stroke of the keys. His cries for help were drowned out by the din of the piano. The music began to build in tempo, the chords rising in volume. He hated his father then, and his sorrow and despair turned to anger. His fingers danced manically about the keys, each note ringing in his ears. Father’s words crashed over him like waves, the boy’s playing growing more fervent as he absorbed the vitriol. The music reached a deafening crescendo. He flew over the keys with intensity, with Father still in his tirade. Chords boomed from the piano, the floor shaking from the noise. Fearsome, discordant tones swelled through the room. Father reached for the boy, gripping him like a vice, and the music stopped.

The piano stood in the corner of the room, casting black shadows on the wall, and it was silent. The rich ivory keys were dotted with scarlet. A man, once austere and imposing, lay prostrate on the floor of the room, his body limp and lifeless. Outside, a group of children ran upon the sun-lit fields and a slender, pale boy ran with them.