Burning Doves//Matthew Murdock

2

The streets of Hell's Kitchen was crowded beyond belief. Mothers, fathers, children, hurrying from place to place, a stampede of people appearing and disappearing from her view beyond the window.

If she wanted, Emma felt that she could watch for hours, small glimpses of human life. Children pulling parents towards large windows to show them the treasures inside. Businessmen talking quickly on the phone as they tunneled through the crowd, clutching overfilled briefcases.

Occasionally, some would separate from the crowd and enter her apartment complex, a blind man tapping his cane rhythmically on the cement, an elderly woman hoisting a worn purse on her shoulder.

Each retreating to their separate abodes to live separate lives.

Emma frowned slightly, bringing up one slender finger and running it along the glass, leaving a clear streak in its wake.

Her own apartment was in disrepair, clothes strewn haphazardly across the floor, a thick layer of dust covering the her tv and bookshelf which were pressed carelessly in the corner, dirty dishes piled up messily in the sink, food dry and crusted on the plates.

Yet, despite the disaster around, one thing remained spotless and clean.

Her piano.

Rolled into the middle of the apartment, standing tall and proud, it's back polished relentlessly, it's keys, though yellow with age, shone with a sense of newness, dusted and cleaned relentlessly until they shone brightly.

It was the center of her life, the point on which all else rotated, it had become her saving grace, and she couldn't be more thankful.

Carefully, sidestepping the mess scattered abroad, she made her way towards it, sitting down on the creaky piano bench, and placing her fingers gently on the keys.

They were cool to her touch, smooth against the pads of her fingers, taking a deep breath, Emma played a single note.

A simple note played over and over again with varying degrees of ferocity, closing her eyes, she leaned back, her hands spreading out naturally over the keys, and she played.

What song?

Even she couldn't tell.

Just an endless stream of notes and rhythms, crescendos and decrescendos.

And at that moment, she didn't care.

She didn't care about the honks and sounds of the world outside, of the barren, wasteland that was her home.
She didn't care about the emotions that assaulted her on a daily bases, because now she poured them into every note.

Every chord that streamed out of her like a wild waterfall, a spring of life bursting from her fingers in glorious song.

In a slow ritardando, the piece finished, and Emma sat back, breathing heavily.

To her surprise, a knock soon resounded at her door and she clumsily got up. It hadn't happened yet, but she knew that eventually one of the residents would tire of her ceaseless playing and demand her to stop, so she finished her trek to the door, dread slowly building in her.

But, upon opening the door, she found the hallway empty, except for a small piece of torn notebook paper sitting, neatly folded on the floor.

Bending over, she picked it up carefully, and opened it.

On it, in neat cursive, read--

Please play Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata Op. 27  

Look at that, I actually updated something.

(Btw, ritardando, means when a piece of music slows down, for example, if I had a ritardando in a song, I would slow down that part, to take it from the dictionary, it's a gradual decrease of tempo)

And if you haven't heard Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, the link is above, it's a beautiful piece, really.