Piano. Playing it now. Dance of the Knights by Prokofiev. Have you heard it? Listen.
The leather stool creaks beneath me and the ivory keys give way beneath my fingers, which amble dreamily along. They skip and hop and prance about, feeling light as a feather. Dove feather. Crow feather. The birds whistle from their places of retreat, singing songs of praise to the heavens above. They trill a lively lullaby; an exquisite melody to express their joy at such a wonderful day; at such a wonderful gift called life.
The melody becomes repetitive; enter my mind. Dreams come to life, and my fingers play the same notes over and over and over again. Now there’s a change of tone. Sudden; unexpected. Darkness enters. Crashes over me, covering me. I urge it to leave, but it stays, and its presence enlarges. Fills the room with its sound and fills my mind with its inky blackness. There’s a thunderous crashing. No good. It’s building, and I thirst to take action. I cannot bear to think such a thought. Please, someone, rid me of this thought! No good! Too late! I crave to kill.
The keys are speaking! The piano is crying out! His turn has come. His fate is sealed. I cannot wait any longer. Fingers itch. I promise I'm not mad. I’m piano, now pianissimo, but what’s this? There's crescendo, a quickening of speed. A forte, now fortissimo. Help! Help! My fingers won’t stop moving! They’re running. Running away from me! Someone, won’t you help me? My mind! The cacophony! My head is filled with discordant chords. Melodies in a major key, now a volta; minor key, minor, minor, minor. The soft and loud dynamics clash in my head. Oh, someone, help me won't you! He’s alive! I can feel his heart beating! Thump, thump, thump. Alive!
I creep into the vast room on tiptoe. Sole of foot touches dense carpet. There in the decrepit dining room he sits, his back turned away from me. The hearth is blazing bright golds and rubies, and the shadow of his back is enlarged and projected onto the peeling wall behind me, enclosing me and suffocating me in its vastness. A sense of his vulnerability startles me; it overwhelms me. A glass of carmine wine is held in one shrivelled hand, and I feel his eyes pierce the painting on the opposite wall. His last wife. Darling Duchess. Cherry red lips and rosy blushing cheeks and alabaster skin jump out of the bleak background. Her sweet white throat embellished with a string of milky pearls, ending in a chest framed with buttery silk and creamy lace. Curly chestnut locks falling freely onto the rich bosom in bouncy strands. Delicate hands placed one on top of the other as eager grey eyes gaze straight into the inky depths of the painter’s. An invisible power pushes me further into the room. I am lost in its spell.
The mood darkens, the clouds gather in the sky, and a gloomy murk encircles me. I feel a storm approach tentatively, now its step becomes firmer. It’s marching, it’s running, it’s sprinting after me. There’s no turning back as I take three, long, drawn out steps towards the chair. I’m carried away with my thoughts, the pace of the music quickens, I raise my dagger above his head. I cannot do it. “You must!” cries the music. The music makes me!
He shrieks.
I shriek.
Silence.
A thin strand reaches my ears. It builds. Louder and louder and louder. It crashes over my head and into my mind and I feel as though I’m drowning; drowning in blood, drowning in wine. It accelerates and I’m swept away in a tornado - there is no escaping. There are trills upon trills and I feel as though I’m falling down and down into the depths of the abyss; into a burning furnace where there is darkness and a loud voice which I am unable to bear. Forgive me God for committing this sin! It was through no fault of mine! You see, the music made me do it! Playing the piano, I cannot help it, the music is the sinner, Lord, I was the victim! Take pity upon me, wretched creature that I am!
Treacle oozes from his chest onto the emerald embroidery of the chair. Seeps into the velvet, staining it. Now it’s gushing; gushing like the torrent of notes cascading down the keyboard. Spills onto the carpet. Fingers are moving as fast as they ever have as I watch the blood stream like a scarlet waterfall from his breast, cascading over his chair and onto my bare feet. Seeps between my toes and I delight in the delicious cool. Feel it trickle under and over and around. Feet in a sea of crimson. The Red Sea. Exodus.
Crescendo, crescendo! The notes won’t stop! I pound the piano with all my force. The music won’t stop! Will. Not. Stop. Someone help me! Fingers are uncontrollable! Blood won’t stop flowing! Thought it would all cease!
Peace. I need it. Peace. Blood starts to dry. Tarnishes and turns ebony. First the edges, now the centre. Ugly. Disgusted at my own sin, wanting to escape from this hell. The man lies still in his place of rest. Final resting place. No one will find him here, in this bloodland.
Some time elapses. I am still playing, reader. I thought I had killed him. I assure you I'm fine. I'm not feeling not well. It's just the soft and loud dynamics, how they clash in my head! The trills, staccato and arpeggiated chords mingle into one large mess, pounding against the sides of my skull like some pestle bent on destroying me, crushing bone to fragments and flesh to mince. The hammer on the anvil, my body laid bare on the icy metal. My punishment, my sin. I ruined him! I killed him! He’s alive!
I am still playing. Animato, animato, brio, brio. The heart won't stop beating. It. Will. Not. Stop.
“Murder! Murder!” the piano shrieks. I cannot flee this inferno. The black and white keys are struck until they combine into one dull, disappointing, dreary mess. Sheets of music piled high on my instrument flutter down like birds from the sky, like crows from the sky, like doves from the sky, flapping their wings desperately to stay afloat, to stay alive. And there's diminuendo. There's caesura. The pulse slows. Exhaustion overpowers me. A bead of sweat forms above my brow. Lingers there. Falls. I stop. The heart lies still in its cage. Can you hear it? Listen.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Inspiration behind this piece
I've forgotten what school year this was, but while I was still in St Margaret's Bushey, I produced a poem called Piano during lesson time. I read it out to the class and my teacher loved it. I'll try and find it, and will put a photo of it onto this blog.(Update: 12.02.21- I can't find it ). Then, in Year 12, when I joined St Paul's, we were asked to write a postmodern short story. I was inspired by the poem that I had written previously, as well as my favourite short story, The Tell Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe, published in 1843. I adore this short story- it captivates me from the very first line. I love the insanity of the narrator yet the eagerness he possesses in wishing to present himself as sane. I love the idea of the beating heart that tortures him and the twist at the end. It was received well by my teacher, although he said that to improve, I should make the reader do more of the work. In fact, I'll write out just what he wrote, 'A really intriguing and adventurous story, Isabelle, with a compelling air to it. I'd have been intrigued to see you go even further with your stream of consciousness technique and make the reader do more of the work.'
If I'm honest, I wasn't too sure what he meant by that, and still am not too sure. I never asked him again. I want to, but am too shy and embarrassed. Oh well. I was also inspired by my favourite poem, My Last Duchess by Robert Browning, and you can see that in the description of the duchess. I love this poem because of the incredible voice of the narrator, who speaks uninterrupted for fifty-six lines in such a nonchalant manner about the murder of his wife. I also used some images of rich and beautiful women, (pictured below). I ended up making her seem edible, with the use of adjectives such as 'cherry red, milky, buttery, creamy, chestnut [and] rich'.
And so I think that's it! It was great fun to write and I learnt a lot about what makes a piece of writing better and how much work goes into a short piece like this. I asked my English teacher for advice, and he was in a rush, but said eliminate some of the adjectives as you're doing too much, and when I told him that my previous English teacher had told me to make the reader do more of the work, he agreed (I don't know how to do that!!) I think he'd written more comments down on the piece, but was in a rush to go, and I emailed him weeks ago asking for more advice but he hasn't replied. Hopefully he will when school starts, but I doubt it. (Update: 09.01.21- He hasn't :// ).
I would love some comments and advice, so if you have any, do let me know!!
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