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The Pianist
Midnights and storm-tossed seas once wove together as he played, fingers flying over the keys like swallows darting into a pond for fish. When he put his hands on the piano, he could slow the sands of time itself, the fall of each particle, each second. When he plays now, the notes ring hollow. Even as the melody flows, as the melancholic chords ring out, that past passion, what drew thousands to watch him play, has long since dissipated into the winds.
—~—
The Muse
What a silly child, to think that ‘the gods’ care enough to bless him with power. I let the music crackling through the television seep through my skin, into my head, my heart, my entire being. And as I slip down, down into the harmony, I wish it would engulf me, burst through my veins and free me from the form I inhabit now, a shadow of who I used to be, an otherworldly being who could level mountains with a glance and part the sea with my hands.
I sit now in a hospital bed, the creaky frame silent, the smell of disinfectant drifting through the lonely hallways. Rain patters against the double-paned window, muffling my thoughts — incessantly drifting, every moment of the day. A stab of black, poisonous hate every time my mind drifts back to his lost talent, a prudent reminder of trust misplaced. A reminder of the frail mortal form I am bound in, now that so much of me has been drained. This wasn’t a future I had perceived, one where he had been corrupted so. To trust this child, allowing him a taste of the forces I wield. It has become my — and will become his — undoing. I lament my power, my soul thundering against the confines of this body, roaring to be let out, yet I know I am too far gone. I gave Icarus his wings, but he has flown too close to the sun.
—~—
The Pianist
In recent times, as he plays, the call has waned. When he performs, that melody which once pulled from above does so no longer, instead flowing out of him. Yet, he has not fully harnessed this power. That essence rushes like a river from his fingertips, overwhelmingly strong, an ancient consciousness of its own. It surges through his veins, gobbling up his strength, feeding on his energy like a parasite. Before, this power was tame, leashed by some heavenly anchor. As he drew more and more of that power, it coiled to reside within him, writhing and twisting; a wyrm of old myth come to life. Volatile. It was never his, and he feels it in the hours after he performs, curled up somewhere backstage, writhing in pain as stars rip jagged through his body.
—~—
The Muse
I feel a ringing in my ears when it happens, and I hear his beautiful music, wrapping around me like a warm cocoon. Scattered specks of light rush across my vision, a dizzying rainbow of colours. The whirlwind of music and colour whisks me up, out of that human vessel, and a gentle breeze tugs at me as the music slows. I no longer feel the papery hospital sheets chafing against my fragile skin, the weak AC rustling my hair ever so slightly. From above, I hear another melody, a softer one; it beckons me, whispering promises of peace, sweet murmurs of an end. And as I drift away, I find solace in that he too, has lost what is dearest to him..
He thought he could play at a god, command power he never had the right to even see. He was a foolish child, blinded by greed. We are but stardust, even gods; the universe comprehending itself. He is a mere mortal who sought greatness, one whose dreams are now forever out of reach, who will spend the rest of his life chasing after what no longer exists.