He ran his fingers over the beautifully lacquered wood, caressing its inviting contour, brushing its gleaming surface lovingly. He eased up the lid, and with a flick of his wrist, removed the scarlet covering from the ivory keys. The cloth rippled through the air in slow motion, like a dragon, a kite, before fluttering to the floor; a ghost crumpling in the air. He lowered himself onto the piano stool reverently and calmly drew a razorblade from his breast pocket. Slashing first his left arm, then his right, he set the razor on the music stand and began to play.

It started slowly, his right hand teasing a melody out of the keys. It began to take shape, its contour ebbing and flowing smoothly, the crisp notes giving it life. His left hand joined, playing simple notes at first. The notes invited harmony, and one by one, chords began to form.

Blood trickled from his wrists, staining the white keys with his life force as great arpeggios rolled up the piano. His heart rate accelerated as the melody became intrinsically more complex and frenetic, like a spider’s last moments. His breath came in shorter gasps as his hands began to weaken, his wrists weeping crimson tears. Urgently now the music ploughed on, rising, faster, louder! It crescendos and peaks! For a moment it lingers on the edge of a precipice- and then! A great chord is struck by Olympian hammers as he collapses on the keyboard, his eyelids lacking the strength to open.

The blood drained into the space between the keys, a bloody mess that almost quenched the gigantic instrument. The seconds ticked by and the notes began to fade from sound, their glory dissipating into the air with its player, never to be heard again.


3 thoughts on ““Threnody”

  1. Bethwyn says:

    I….am shocked. I’ll be honest. Though your writing is beautiful, the story scares me. I can’t tell you why. I miss talking to you. Lol, it hasn’t been a long time and I miss it already, I’m so silly.

  2. Liam, Baron of Hoskuldstadir says:

    It’s just stunning- writing of such high calibre and precision.
    Stories are documents of the subconscious- your subconscious is a dystopian underworld, full of chaotic landscapes and hypnotic mist.

  3. Unknown says:

    "I could see it coming. It was Romantic.""Romantic?""Yeah, the epitome of Romanticism. Going out in style." *laughs* "Yeah I liked it. Very enjoyable."^^

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