Youforia [N.H]

70

Warnings: self harm.

Aycie Locke

September 15th, California.

**

"Oh, I hope some day I make it out of here, even if it takes one night or a thousand years"

My fingers slide through the keys on the piano, the pads of my finger tips brushing against the ancient delicate ivory, something that's never seen any more and for good reason.

"Need a place to hide, but I can't find one near" I sing softly, finding myself back in this forgotten room.

This is my only escape, an old dusty room in the back of my school. We're in an old brick building that goes back hundreds of years, I was walking around the halls alone the first few days of secondary and it was tough.

It was a big change in my life and I had no friends or anyone to help me, it was terrifying. I didn't want to sit alone at lunch so I just walked and walked until I found myself going down some stairs, completely perplexed since we were on the ground floor until I realised it was just a basement.

It was a small room full of cobwebs and old textbooks, science equipment, a chalk board and most importantly a very old grand piano.

"Wanna feel alive, outside I can't fight my fear"

It's a big, dark mahogany structure, the pedals are sticky as well as some of the keys. The first time I sat at this I didn't know how to differentiate my left hand from my right. But after every break and lunch over the past seven years in this school, I've heard every note of these keys, I've tuned them and I've learnt to play them.

I think it's beautiful. The sound is echoey but never goes far within the small perimeter of this room, on every key I press down I can feel the hands of the hundreds of students that probably played on this centuries ago.

In a way it feels like I'm keeping it alive. In a way it feels like it's keeping me alive.

Every argument with my mum would result in more tears spilled over the keys. Every morning I wake up and see the brand new wine bottle empty on the sofa results in more frustration bleeding through me and into the ivory. Every bruise left on my body, every syllable screamed in my face, every penny stolen from me resulting  in more and more emotion being spilled out in the only hour of my day that fills my body with serenity and peace.

No one ever comes down here, it's always me and my rucksack, a thick notebook with songs I write at home, most have guitar composed for the music but a few I write and keep this piano in mind.

The emotion I put into some of my songs can only be expressed with the emotions I feel when I play this instrument.

This song being one of them.

"Isn't it lovely? All alone, heart made of glass my mind, of stone"

The dampness on my cheeks is not unusual, it's expected, I never stop it from happening. I keep my eyes shut, knowing this piano like the backs of my hands as the music I made up for this song rings through my ears like the comfort of the sweetest voice, telling me I'll be okay.

I'm a little upset that I'll be leaving school soon, only because that means I'll never get to play this piano again.

That and I'll miss my drum teacher but I can't wait to leave everything and everyone else behind.

"Tear me to pieces, skin and bone, hello, welcome home."

**

"Do you want a burial or a cremation?"