Post by Monique James on Jun 6, 2010 18:47:38 GMT -5
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YOUR CRUEL DEVICE
your blood like ice
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Well, here she was. In a room that she had sworn she'd never be in again. The music room, and she was sitting in a corner with her back against the side of the piano, mostly out of sight. She had come here because it was the one place where people never would think to look for her here and she wanted to be alone. Too many of her 'peers' were self centered morons. She didn't want to deal with them, after all she was already on thin ice as far as her 'behavior' was concerned. Even though she didn't seem like she cared all that much (because she didn't. Really.) Monique didn't want to spend more time than absolutely necessary in solitary. It was too boring there and they took her lighter.
Leaning her head back to rest against the wooden side of the piano, she closed her eyes and took a drag off the cigarette she had been holding in her hand, pulling her knees up to her chest more and willing herself to relax. Sure, she hadn't been here all that long, but already she was wound tighter than she had on most other occasions previously to this. There was a lack of outlets for her, especially physical ones, which meant she was closer to punching someone than she normally would be. Or maybe lighting someone, or something, on fire.
Still, she willed herself to relax, if only a little, and let her mind drift back to when she was first learning the piano. Back in those days it was so hard for her to get even the simplest of tunes down and her small hands would often accidentally hit two keys at once, or miss the key she needed all together because she couldn't reach that far. She had practiced for a week before she could play "Twinkle Twinkle" perfectly. The fingers on her right hand, the one on the ground, absently tapped the familiar melody out as it floated, unbidden and faint, through her memory. Her mother had been so proud of her when she had finally gotten it right. Then when she had grown a little more, her skills had jumped sharply and she spent hours and hours at the piano, playing anything she could get her hands on, over and over and over again until she found it was perfect. The music had been perfect back then.
Not warped, twisted and nearly dead as it was now.
She could sense it. The clefs were broken into pieces, the lines on the staffs twisted every which way, and the notes of that music box melody that used to inhabit her soul were cracked and on the ground, only a few holding in place, but wobbling precariously as they threatened to fall and shatter like hollow crystalline glass.
Part of her hated that her music was dead, as she missed it. She really did. But whenever she tried to play something, nothing good ever seemed to come from it. Yeah, usually she could get the notes right, but they sounded dull and empty, lacking that special spark that the few taped performances that she had done once held. She could hear the difference when she had listened to them. They were something genuinely special. She had been special.
Now she was just as empty as her music, following that funeral procession until it was her turn to be put into the ground.
TAG none
OUTFIT Cargo pants, a camo top and her combat boots.
NOTES ….open, but please, don’t piss her off.
TEMPLATE BY xWHOA
LYRICS Poison, groove coverage.
