Writing Stuffs

Blaine

He stands at the marimba, two mallets in each hand, as his brown eyes peer through his glasses at the music on the stand in front of him. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth, carefully biting down as he examines the pages. His hands slowly move the mallets to where each one is hovering over a note. Hesitantly at first, he taps the wooden bars with the balls of string, eventually growing more confident with each time he does it. Minutes later he stops and shakes his head, his dark locks barely moving on top of his head. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before reopening them and starting at the beginning of the piece. Not even halfway through, he cringes with annoyance evident in his facial expression. He tries again but stops around the same place. After multiple times of trying again and again, he finally gives up in frustration. He angrily shoves the mallets back into the bag hanging on the instrument and stomps off in a different direction. He walks into a different room, greeted with the one thing that will make it all better. He sits down and takes the familiar wooden sticks in his hands. He lets out a long breath as his foot makes contact with the pedal on the floor. The deep sound of the bass drum hits him like his heartbeat. His hands come down with almost no mercy, hitting the drums and the cymbals in a perfect continuous rhythm. A while later he stops to run his fingers through his sweaty hair. He smiles and bites his lip, this time in pride rather than anxiety. He gets up, carefully setting the drumsticks on the chair, and walks out of the room ready to try the music again.