When I was six years old, Aunt Yvonne handcuffed me to the piano for the first time. Don't worry, she made sure my little fingers could still reach the keys.
The bruises never hurt much, as far as bruises go. Besides, I could imagine the violet rings as the amethyst bracelets I wouldn't have been allowed to wear otherwise. I could imagine the bruises beautiful. An act of rebellion, however small.
I had to learn it. As all Crocker's do. A sequences of notes - I didn't know the reason. Only that I had to know it. The kind of had that means going days without food, being denied water until the chords sounded just right.
My aunt died on my eighth birthday so I never learned the whole song or what it meant. I did learn however that I hated my aunt and I hated the piano. It was the last day I touched the keys. February 6, 2008.
On another, plausibly related note, that was also the last day anyone on earth died.
Until today.
YOU ARE READING
The Killing Chords
Teen FictionNobody in fifteen year old Violet Crocker's world has died in seven years. The last person died on the last day she played piano with her aunt. Until today...until Milt's little brother. Now healthy people are dying by the thousands. Violet hasn't...
