Piano Keys

Piano Keys
by
Yet Another Writer
Status: Unfinished, still writing.

Chapter One: Whiskey Diluted With Tears
         His fingers glided effortlessly across the recently-polished keys of the grand piano, worn and bony with years of practise and experience yet still darting swiftly over the keys as if he were young, resulting in a soothing melody waltzing around the air, so beautiful the birds nestling on the window pane began to sing along. His deep set brown eyes shifted from his hands to the wrinkled sheet of paper, marked with black music notes, and he followed them with precise knowledge.
         Beside him on the plush leather seat sat his student, a male college student who was attempting to learn piano to present his girlfriend with the perfect Valentine gift; the ring-binder, stuffed with his numerous attempts at romantic song writing, rested next to his schoolbag, trapped in the shadowy corner of the spacious room they sat in. The boy watched in awe as the player’s fingers danced over the keys, his brain struggling to keep up with such musical beauty.
         The tear-jerking melody grew louder and faster, and reached a stunning climax which rang with everlasting love across the ceiling. The player drew his hands from the piano and swivelled round to face his student.
         “So, Henry, if you keep practising, you will be able to achieve something to that standard by February,” smiled the musician as he gently massaged his aching knuckles. The boy’s fresh face lit up with sheer delight, and he leapt up from the seat and collected his bag and folder from the corner.
         “Oh, thank you, Mr Hunter! Cassie will love it – she adores piano music, she’s always listening to famous composers and she can play the piano herself. So talented, and so beautiful,” replied Henry with much enthusiasm, eyes glazed over with obvious love for his sweetheart. Almost instantly he snapped from his haze upon realizing his teacher was watching with a slight smile on his chapped lips.
         “Good, good. She sounds like a lovely girl,” he grinned, and Henry responded with a vigorous nod of agreement. “Oh, and Henry?”
         “Yes, Mr Hunter?”
         “Please, call me Marcus.”
         And with those words, Henry disappeared out the oak door, his footsteps echoing all across the hall and out into the busy city world. Finally Marcus could let his lips droop and give his jaw a rest from the smiles he had to conjure up for his many students.
         The bones in his knees popped and cracked as he lifted himself from the chair and stumbled through the splintering oak door and the brightly-painted, excessively-decorated hallways to the living room. He yearned for a rest and a swig of whiskey, the only thing which could relax him.
         The moment he opened the living room door, the so familiar fragrance of jasmine invaded his nostrils, and arose nausea lying in the pit of his stomach. He almost stumbled with nostalgic thoughts, despite being so used to such a scent; he guessed that he still wasn't used to the emptiness of the plump purple armchair sitting next to the unlit fireplace. Shaking his head to drag himself from his mind, he hobbled to the patterned sofa and swung his legs up onto the footrest. His arm fumbled underneath the furniture until his fingers enclosed around the cold bottle of whiskey he kept hidden from others. The curtains were drawn. Marcus liked them that way – the last thing he wished for was to be disturbed by the endless roar of city life which thrived on the other side of the wall. Peace, tranquil, darkness... they are what he had known and loved all his life.
         He unscrewed the whiskey bottle, the cap diving to the ground, surely to be swept back under the sofa. His lips tingled for a sip, but before he took a well-deserved swig, he glanced at the empty armchair and lifted to the bottle to it. “Cheers,” he muttered gruffly, before bringing the bottle to his mouth and drinking.
The liquid swam down his throat while the alcohol rushed to his head. Suddenly, he felt his muscles unclench and relax, resulting in him flopping down into the cushions.
         Ugh, what was he doing with his life? Here he lay, only forty-five summers old, and already he pictured life as a punishment; fate had treated him unfairly, first stealing his parents, then his job, and then his wife, whom he still loved so fiercely his heart tightened whenever he thought about her.
         Bessie. Young, dear, exuberant, lovely Bessie. The moment their eyes met in the middle of a crowded dance floor, with tracks pouring from the band that stood upon a stage surrounded by fans, he instantly knew it was true love. Her sheer, impossible beauty had winded him, stolen his breath, and all he could do the rest of the evening was stare. Bessie, unfortunately, had not shown such strong signs of mutual attraction until several years later, when they had collided in a market place. Marcus could still feel the agony and jealousy he had felt that night at the nightclub when he saw her with her slender arms draped around another man’s neck, and her slim legs wrapped around his waist, their lips crushing against each other’s. He had never felt so vile in his life, knowing that the love of his life resided with another person.
         “It all went according to plan, though,” he spoke aloud with a smug smile, his eyes flickering up to the chair once more. “Bessie, dear Bessie, it was only ten years. I had never felt such happiness in my life for a decade, until you were cruelly torn from my life.” Another swig of whiskey, and Marcus stretched his aching limbs before resuming his feeble, splayed-out position on the couch. Every now and again, he could sense darkness creeping up on him, attempted to make his life even more of a misery, yet he knew that this simply not possible any more. Without Bessie, everything seemed strange, cold, alone. Only his wife’s smile could brighten up a Winter’s day; not alcohol, tobacco or nicotine could replace such a gift. Everything resided in the shadows nowadays, including (and especially) Marcus.
         “Oh well, life drags on,” he muttered to himself. “Got another new student tomorrow. Wonder how this is going to play out.”



Chapter Two: That Little French Girl
         The sun began to climb over the rocky horizon, the flawless colour of ripe tangerines, and orange light slowly seeped through the partially-drawn curtains of Marcus’s bedroom. As the light crept across the worn carpet marked with irremovable black coffee and red wine, and up into Marcus’s eyes, he awoke with a start.
         “Blasted curtains!” he growled, frustrated that his beautiful dream had been disturbed. He hoisted himself into a rough sitting position before hastily wiping his drooping eyes, trying to remember every precious second of his night-time vision; once again, he had unsurprisingly dreamt about Bessie, and the night they met. Only this time, she wasn’t entwined around another’s man’s waist. She saw him staring in awe, placed her sherry on the bar, gracefully stepped over to him, and pulled him into an embrace, their lips meeting instantly. He had bought her another drink, they chatted like an old married couple, and, at the end of the night, they had driven back to her apartment and made love. Marcus fought the tears threatening to well up in his eyes; if only this scenario had played out in real life. Then they would have spent thirteen happy years together, not just ten.
         “My life’s full of ‘if only’s and ‘what if’s,” another complaint about his existence fell through his lips as he pulled a smart shirt and trousers from the wardrobe and carelessly dressed, not bothering to iron them. The whiskey from the night before was now coming back to haunt him, and a selective few items in the corner of his vision blurred excessively. Still, he was able to transport himself from his bedroom to the bathroom, where he swiftly washed, and then to the living room, waiting for his student.
         It was around one o’clock in the afternoon when the chime of the doorbell echoed through the hallways, awaking Marcus from his shallow slumber. A little startled and dazed, his hands dragged down his shirt, effectively smoothing out the creases. After another swig of whiskey, he stumbled down the hallway and to the door.
He clasped hold of the cold doorknob and politely opened the door, the fake smile already plastered onto his face, and a flood of sunlight illuminated the shadowed hall. A small, thin figure stood on the doormat, and Marcus narrowed his eyes to get a better look at his new student. Before he could make out their features, the figure stepped into the portion of light and suddenly showed their face. Thick waves of dirty blonde hair cascaded down a lightly-sun-kissed face; subtle blue eyes shone like sapphires under thick, makeup-caked lids, her pearly-white teeth nervously chewed on her lipstick-smothered bottom lip, and a black t-shirt and torn denim jeans clothed her extraordinarily-slender, surely anorexic, body. She glanced up at Marcus with those blue eyes, a Smartphone in one hand and a notebook in the other. Undoubtedly beautiful, yet alarmingly strange. Marcus blinked, confused.
         “Hello,” she said with a tiny smile, and Marcus noticed a slight French accent balancing on the edge of her words.
         “Hello, there. I assume you’ve come for piano lessons?” replied Marcus, smiling back.
         “Yes, that’s right. My name is Aimee. Aimee La Rue,” she said, more confidently now, and began walking down the hallway, inspecting the plentiful abundance of yellow photos pinned up on the walls. “Wow, your wife is beautiful,” her finger traced across a sepia photo of Marcus and Bessie sitting on a park bench, his arm wrapped around her shoulders.
         “Yes, yes, she was,” whispered Marcus under his held breath, and hurriedly switched topic. “Ok, this way to the piano room, as I call it,” he strode in front of Aimee and she obediently followed him into the room where the black instrument stood.
         Aimee gasped as she strolled through the oak door; black walls towered seemingly to the sky, sleek and elegant, with black and white or pop art posters adorning them, simply yet stunningly. The piano stood proudly in the exact centre of the room, almost glowing with beauty. Marcus sat on the tall leather seat, and patted the other side of it to invite Aimee to sit next to him. She did, and Marcus could feel the inner teacher of him rising to his face.
         “So, Aimee, have you any experience with piano playing?” he inquired as his fingers began pressing down random keys yet still somehow managing to make them sound tuneful.
         “Yes, I do; I came here to get more professional, as I heard that you used to play in concerts,” she said in a matter-of-factly voice with raised eyebrows, and she batted Marcus’s hands away before placing her own long fingers on the keys and playing. A sweet, sorrowful melody began arising from the piano and spreading its wings, growing louder with each note. Marcus’s chocolate-brown flickered up from the piano to Aimee, and he couldn’t help but look in awe – half at her skill, half at her beauty.
         “That was very good,” Marcus complemented Aimee as she dropped her fingers from the keys and the music abruptly halted, and she beamed. “You’ve definitely had practice – if you ask me, you’re already professional.”
         “Oh, believe me, I’m not!” chuckled Aimee, trying to disguise the pink tinge which appeared on her cheeks.
         “So, why are you here? You’re already incredibly talented,” Marcus attempted to strike up a conversation in order to remove the awkwardness from his mind.
         “It’s a long story,” she replied, and a stray strand of curly blonde hair fell from behind her ear. Almost automatically, Marcus leaned forward and tucked it back. Aimee smiled, her eyes softening. “Well, I auditioned for a band with my best piece, but they weren't impressed, and they gave me this –” her nails tapped the screen of her phone which lit up, casting a white glow on her face, and a stretch of music notes appeared which she showed to Marcus. “– which I have no idea how to play, it’s a little too fast for me. They said I need to learn that in order to get into the band.”
         “Oh, I see... blimey, even I’d struggle with this,” admitted Marcus as he scrolled down, revealing more and more music notes. When he eventually reached the bottom of the screen he handed it back, and Aimee placed it against the music sheet rest so they could both view it. “So, let’s get to work. Do you understand these notes?”
         “Yep – that’s a G, that’s a C, a B#, an F and I think that’s an A flat,” she answered with a quick nod.
         “Correct!” chuckled Marcus, and he hesitantly took Aimee’s silky hands and placed them on the piano, spreading out her fingers so they lay in the centre of each milky-white key. “So, press down the C on your right hand and the B on your left,” she did, and a note rung out from the instrument. “Ok, now, if you can, identify all the other notes and try and play that bar. I’ll correct you if you stumble.”
         “Okay,” said Aimee, and began playing. A soft song filled the spacious room, each note free and true, reminding Marcus of the time when he was young and lively and happy with his life. His heart ached with memories of cheering audiences, fresh suits and ties, Bessie stood amongst the crowd, almost crying as he played a romantic melody whilst making it incredibly clear that the love of his life stood in the cluster of people. Oh, if there was one thing Marcus cherished most, it was memories.
         Hours seemed to fly by, and it was only when Marcus made his way to the kitchen to make Aimee a drink that he noticed where the needle hands on the sleek, brown wall clock were positioned.
         “Wow, you've been here three hours,” he chuckled as he handed Aimee a glass of cola and she laughed in synchronisation with him. “Won't your parents be worried?”
         “No, they’ll be busy arguing or beating each other up, or fussing over my little brother,” the French girl took a dainty sip of the cola, her teeth clinking against the glass, sighing in satisfaction as the liquid poured down her throat. “We’re a rather dysfunctional family, let’s say. We hate each other’s guts. My parents are always at each other’s throats, I’ve seen them draw blood on each other.”
         “Jeez...” muttered Marcus, eyebrows knitted together as he frowned. “How do you live there?”
         “I try not to,” she said, taking a long swig. “They never notice when I’m gone, so I try and stay out of the house as much as I can. I either stay at a friend’s house and if they're all out partying, I sleep in an alleyway. I will genuinely do anything if it means I can get out of there.”
         “Woah, sleeping rough to escape your family,” Marcus’s mind debated whether or not to say what he was planning to. Surely she’d react normally, and politely decline if she didn't like the idea... not go crazy and scream abuse at him. “You know... you can stay here if you want to escape.”
         “Really?” asked Aimee almost eagerly, then grinned a large smile, flashing her pearly white teeth. “Wow, thanks, Marcus."
         “No problem,” he beamed as well, for once a genuine smile. “So, I think you've got the hang of this piece – you can play it almost perfectly! Now go to that audition and knock that band out.”
         “Oh, believe me, Marcus, I will,” she laughed excitedly, then she grabbed her phone and notebook and was out the door in a flash.
         Marcus gazed at the door which groaned loudly as it creaked open gradually, his mind whirling with confusing thoughts. This was the first time, the first time since the day before Bessie had passed away, when he'd actually felt alive. Aimee had somehow made him feel young and carefree again with her talent and her beauty.
         But the thing that both amazed and horrified him was that, every single time his dark brown eyes met her subtle blue eyes, the feeling arose in the bottom of his gut: the same feeling he'd experienced when he met Bessie. It wasn't love, it couldn’t be – such a large age distance, surely love had some bounds? Surely it wasn’t physically possible for a seventeen-year-old teenage girl to fall for a forty-five year old man!
         “It is, however,” he said to himself with his head in one hand. “Possible for a forty-year-old man to fall for a seventeen-year-old girl.”
         Nope, nope, nope. What he had felt was just pure ridiculousness. How could he betray Bessie like that? His wife, whom he loved with his entire tender heart, would be utterly disgusted if she were still alive.
         “But she isn't alive... not anymore.”



Chapter Three: Through Aimee's Eyes
This chapter contains violent scenes.
         The night wind howled down the empty city streets, dragging its fingers through Aimee’s tangled hair as she made her way down the pavement. Leaves flew across the deserted road, and a thin sheen of rain coated the concrete; somewhere in the distance, a dog barked uncontrollably, and the incessant pounding of music and screaming poured from the nightclubs, disturbing the once-tranquil air. The Latimer Estate transformed from a boring, grey-building-ridden town to a dangerous place at night. Reports of gang rape and stabbings and shootings were unsurprisingly common when the sun had hidden its face in fear.
         Aimee tightened her jacket around her thin waist and carried on down the road, the clicking of her heels echoing and spreading around the numerous streets. Above her, yet another streetlamp blinked, then fell asleep, exiling her to the shadows.
         “Hey, sexy!” her head snapped up to see a gang of tall, muscular teenage boys draped against the wall of a nightclub, slurping noisily from two-litre bottles of cheap cider and exhaling smoke from their cigarettes. The obvious gang-leader, the lofty one with the solid biceps and smoking a joint, called again. “Come over here, sexy!”
         “Piss off!” shouted back Aimee, and the playful grin on the gang-leader’s face immediately dropped, and a strange look of insanity began to invade his dilating pupils. This alarmed Aimee, and she picked up her walking pace with the hope she could disappear from the attention on the gang.
         “Oi, get back here, you bitch!” screeched the boy, and he shoved the bottle into his friend’s chest before crossing the road in one fleet movement. Aimee screamed, and kicked off her stilettos into the bushes before breaking into a full-on sprint. “Oh no, bitch, you ain’t running away from me!”
         Aimee knew she was fast, and she could see a building with the doors wide open and inviting directly ahead of her; yellow light illuminated the road and audible talking emerged from the doorway. She knew they couldn’t hurt her in the middle of a crowded room. Her speed increased again, and the golden handle sat within arm’s reach. All she had to do was catch it...
         “Get here, bitch!” Aimee’s stomach jolted as she felt two athletic arms lock around her waist and toss her to the ground with agonizing force; she winced in pain as she felt the skin on her face tear open. The man pressed his forearm down on her windpipe, pinning her to the concrete as crawled on top of her.
         “You gonna talk back now?” he growled, insanity devouring his eyes and tone.
         “No! No! I’m sorry!” cried Aimee, hot tears spilling down her cheeks which dragged the mascara with them, creating the illusion of black tears. “Please, get off!”
         “Oh no, bitch, you need a lesson!” he roared, looking her up and down as if she were a piece of meat and he hadn’t eaten for a week. Then, his fingers found the buttons of her skinny jeans; they popped open beneath his grip.
         “No! No, please! No, no, I’ll scream! Stop it!” the French girl whimpered as the man yanked down her jeans, revealing her bare thighs and pink, lacy panties. His eyes widened with a mix of craziness and delight.
         “If you make a noise, I’ll get out my knife and slit your throat,” his gruff voice muttered, before his hands tore the fabric of the panties in two. Aimee gagged, but gnawed the inside of her cheek to suppress the scream. She’d rather be raped than killed.
         The moment he abused her was the worst moment of her entire life. Agony tore through her guts as he roughly moved inside her, slamming her head against the pavement with every move. More tears fell from her eyes yet she still remained silent, consumed by the fear that a blade would pierce her chest and sink so deep it would peek out the flesh of her back. Silent pleads for hell screamed in her head, yet the only noise she could muster was quiet whimpers of complete and utter pain. Help, she called in her mind. Somebody please come around the corner and save me. Please... another slam against the concrete, and now, she could feel her vision fading. Help me... help me... help.
         Marcus strolled down the walkways, surprised that such a dull and drab town was what lived outside the curtains. He expected wild parties, with dancing teenagers pouring out onto the streets, not broken streetlamps and used syringes littering the streets. The town outside was just as grey and depressing as the inside of his home – he might has well have stayed inside next to the fire with his bottle of whiskey.
         As he turned another corner, he looked down at the pavement, and was greeted by the sight of two teenagers having violently sex in the middle of the walkway. He was about to turn around and leave them to it, when something caught his eye. He knew that blonde hair and tiny figure...
         Aimee looked over at the man standing at the edge of the pavement and immediately cowered away, begging for no one else, but when she got a better look, she recognized him. Marcus. Marcus!
         “Marcus!” she screamed, and the rapist abruptly slugged his palm across her face, silencing her.
         “Shut it or I’ll get my knife out!” he threatened, his thrusting becoming more vigorous and painful.
         “Help me,” she mouthed to Marcus, who stood frozen like a deer in headlights. What could he do? He was bigger and stronger than this guy, but he was most definitely drunk or stoned, or both. Teenagers are uncontrollable, especially when they aren’t even in control of themselves. But then he saw the agony in his student’s blue eyes, and he knew he had to help. Besides, what if that was Bessie being raped by her then-boyfriend?
         Immediately he rushed forward and grabbed the boy, throwing him into the road, knocking him unconscious with the impact. When he was sure the rapist wasn’t reaction, Marcus leant down to a half-naked Aimee.
         “Holy shit, are you okay?!” he asked as Aimee hurriedly pulled up her jeans, tears blubbing from her swollen eyelids down her bruised face, unable to speak. “Come on, get back to mine!” He wrapped his arm around her seemingly-emaciated waist, and she draped her skinny arm around his shoulders, and he half-supported, half-carried his student down the pavement, making his way back to his house.
         When they eventually stumbled through the door, Marcus dragged Aimee into the living room and lay her down on the sofa, the sweet scent of jasmine entwined with the stench of cheap cider, drugs and sickly perfume now making him nauseous.
         “Aimee, what the hell happened?” he enquired, attempting to calm his student down, but the question was answered by another outburst of stinging tears. Marcus racked his brain for a way to calm her down: medicine, sleeping pills, whiskey... the pianist dived beneath the sofa and pulled out the whiskey bottle, and practically poured the liquid down Aimee’s throat. Almost instantly, her tensed muscles unknotted and relaxed, and her choked sobs calmed.
         “I... this guy called me across the street... I shouted at him... h-he ran after me... forced me onto the floor... said he’d kill me if I screamed,” replied the French girl between cries. Marcus gasped in sympathy, and pulled Aimee into a tight embrace.
         “You’re staying in the spare room tonight. You can wear one of my jumpers – they’re comfy. I’ll fix you a coffee, you go either run a bath or sleep, I don’t mind which. Go and relax, and we’ll call the police tomorrow.”


Chapter Four: More Lessons