Short Stories (without happy end)

Amelia (part. 1)

The air is heavy, stormy. It weighs on the city and makes the atmosphere suffocating. I bounce the ball and it raises dust that sticks to my sweat. Time seems to stand still for a split second as I throw the ball in the air to engage. I hit the yellow ball as hard as the moment allows and wait for it to come back to me. As I expected, it comes back like a flash of lightning whistling to my left. I had time to deport myself and I send it back as it came. The exchange is tense and we remain unperturbed even when the storm rumbles in the distance. The game is close, as always, but I feel that this time the match is in my favor. The last exchange ends under the impassive eye of my father who, when it is finished, gets up and leaves without a word, nor even a look for me. I am exhausted. I lie down on the brick-colored floor and inhale large gulps of air. I don't move for several minutes, my arm covering my eyes, my chest rising less and less rapidly. I feel a few drops on my thighs. I stretch my arms out to my sides and let the rain run down my body. I am soaked, water drips down my face but I don't go away. My eyes are lost among the clouds. They rise in the sky in big volutes of the color of coal, steel, or snow. The light is barely filtered through these behemoths of water and I finally get up when the rain becomes too heavy.

The rooms are deserted, only I am left on the first floor. I hurriedly took a shower and went home. I live only a few meters away from the courts that belong to my parents who stayed in my father's office that I leave behind. I am greeted only by a light meowing when I enter the empty house. My cat comes to rub against my legs while purring. His bowl is empty. I fill it and watch him eat for a few seconds before going up to my room. Here, everything is perfectly tidy, there is not the slightest trace of dust, everything is square and orderly. Yet it doesn't look like me, this room could belong to anyone, it is so impersonal. The colors are neutral, white, gray, pastel blue. There is no decoration, the walls are bare. I distinguish a scratching against my door and go to open it. My cat rushes onto my bed and starts meowing. I sit down next to Chopin and start petting him. My parents were surprised when I named him but they didn't say anything, probably because it was my birthday. After that, they almost didn't let it go. There's a reason why the goldfish in the living room are named McEnroe, Borg, Nadal, and Federer. I scratch Chopin's muzzle and think how lucky I am to have it. It is almost entirely black, only three of its legs and a spot around its eye are white. They say that we tend to choose pets that look like us, but Chopin succeeded in doing what I would never dare to do. He only obeys me and shows openly that he does not like my parents. He does what he wants, when he wants, and leaves as soon as my mother tries to pet him.

I get up and take my headphones out of my desk drawer. I let the music wash over me, I let it carry away all my negative emotions. I close my eyes and imagine the pianist's hands flying over the keys. These hands are mine. I am in a huge hall, on a stage. I am alone in front of a grand piano, only lit by a spotlight. The melody carries me away from my life for a few moments. The emotion contained in these notes gives me goosebumps and tears start to flow without my being able to control them.

* * *

The storm rocks me. The song of the rain on the tiles accompanies me to the kingdom of dreams.
As usual, the dinner passed in an embarrassing calm punctuated by questions about my grades, my training programs, but I was never asked my opinion. My parents sign me up for competitions, I have to win, that's how it is. I have to be the best at tennis, I have to get the best grades, I have to not be a nuisance. I have to win everything.
I take refuge in my dreams in the only place where I can be myself, in front of this piano that makes me forget everything.