The Awakening Conscience

No dust lay clumped on my keys. My wood was shiny, polished. I was in perfect condition; he needed me. He needed me in order to receive the prizes he got when he gently tickled me, extracting the most sensual music I could give. He was gentle, but he was cunning. He could manipulate with my music. He played me softly, which can’t be said for the way he played them.
I have seen them come and go; the women. He lured them in with his charming words and my powerful sound. I’ve seen too many for me to remember. But I remember her.

She wore a long, white dress, which swept the floor gracefully as he led her into the room. Around her neck was a pink tie, in a simple bow. Her attire contrasted dramatically with his; black, as he always wore when he brought them home. Her hair had been in a neat bun at the nape of her neck, but he soon took care of that. As he lightly pulled out each pin, one by one, it had tumbled down her back, glimmering when it caught the light from the open window.

She was hesitant, but then so were the others. That had never bothered him; in fact it encouraged him further. He liked the game, and he enjoyed toying with the pieces with which he played. As he sat down and skilfully drew out from me the most radiant piece of music, he looked over at her expectantly. I was alluring, and he knew it. None of the others could ever resist him after hearing me. She was no less beautiful than the others, but even then I could tell she was different somehow. Her gaze as she watched him was distant, as if she was thinking of something else; another world, another life. He removed his left glove, discarding it onto the floor, and held out his bare hand, drawing her close to him when she placed hers inside. Her delicate hand, decorated with several rings, was swallowed by his large one and I saw him notice this while a small smile stretched underneath his wiry moustache. This was when he produced an expensive shawl, exquisitely detailed. He draped the shawl around her waist possessively before pulling her onto his lap.

Once, a few years earlier, a black cat had sprung through the window of the room. It carried a tiny bird in its mouth, which lay still until it was spat onto the floor, when it begun to struggle. As the bird fluttered its wings in a desperate attempt to fly away, the cat had pawed at it roughly and grasped at it with its teeth. Not enough to kill it, just enough to prove that the bird was at its mercy.

This is what I was reminded of as they sat in front of me, with her perched upon him. When he started to explore different areas of her pale skin with his hand, the look in her eyes showed me her desire to escape, but yet she did not break free. The trace of his fingertips may have been light but the grip on her that his other hand had formed was tight. She endured his touch for a few short minutes, but only because she seemed to not be fully focused on what was happening. I noted the playful glint in his eyes as he looked at her, and the way that hers were only watching the window on the opposite side of the room. The leaves on the trees outside formed an arc of the most vivid greens and yellows, the colours so divine they looked as if they had been painted. She was breath-taken by the magnificence of it, and by the freedom it promised. He must have mistaken her reaction as one caused by him, and so decided to finally proceed. Enough of the games, he wanted to be satisfied.

But I could see the cogs clicking in her mind. A human brain isn’t that different to the inside of a piano, the inside of me, really. You press a key, and it triggers an internal chain reaction that results in a response. With his abrupt change of intentions, he had pressed the wrong key, and in realising this she suddenly seemed to come to life. She rose off his lap facing the window, as if the light was drawing her out, calling her. Her hands shoved away the shawl, so it slumped into a heap on the floor. He was confused, but still persisted in calling her name, asking what she was doing, trying to tempt her into returning to him. But she ignored his requests; she took herself away with her back straight and her head high. Never before had a bird managed to pry itself from the cat’s artful grasp, but she did. The bird flew away.

And now, all these years later, my keys are clogged with a thick layer of dust. My wood is dull, neglected. I am abandoned, my music silenced for so long. I still can’t remember all the women he brought back with him to play with. But I will always remember her. She was the death of me.