Lit: A Story

Chapter Four

"Everybody! Please listen."

I stand in the middle of the circle. The members of the group stare at me. One of them gulps when I catch her eye. The other covers his yawn. I know they are frightened of me because of the surprise outburst.

Except for one.

Her long thin legs display itself stiffly on my way. I stop on the edge of her place. She looks up and tosses her lustrous hair. I reckon she wants me to be envious; what is to like about her? I care not about her almost sluttish disposition.

"You can sit properly, you know," I remark. She raises an eyebrow.

"You can take the other direction," she points to my back, "See. There's plenty of space to fill your filth."

"Oh. 'Cause yours is overflowing this dump?" I hear appreciative snickers from our company. I feigned sniffing something disgusting. "Why does it smell like dung in here? Return to the washroom, people."

More chortles follow. I give her my infamous smug look. Poor wannabe, trying to intimidate me with her amateur tongue. Surely, she is unaware of the wars mine has stumbled upon.

She sneers. "At least I don't go around hounding on someone else's property."

The threat has not swayed my attention. The crowd remains ignorant. I turn back to her.

"Guess the owner forgot to put a label on her thing." I wink. "Maybe you should advise name plates to her."

Poor wannabe does know how to cry wolf. Too bad, she let herself be used by some backstabbing coward.

---

Late afternoon arrives with rain showers on its tail.

I do not feel timorous as I stand alone in the music room. Rather, it ensues somber emotions from me. The rain blurs the edges of the vision, creating patches of illusion against the real thing. That is how I perceive me position in real life, and it saddens me to be hindered by a mere attachment.

My eyes drop to the grand piano. Static but sleek. I always look at it with awe; how can something ancient produce an ethereal product? Is it its history that marks its magnificence, or its stature that defines its elegance? Abstract ideas flow in my mind whenever this grandiose instrument enters my mind. I slip my hand on its surface. My hands dance its way to the ivory keys.

A nocturne is played by my fingers. I offer it to the gloom. I remove my mask. My face contorts with inner pain. There are no waterworks, for my eyes are void of its childish escape. I hum. I sway side by side. I catch the whimpers.

"The group is looking for you."

My daydream shatters. My hands freeze in panic. I lift my head. Pierre's gaze does not falter.

"There wouldn't be any activity 'til six."

"You're one of the leaders," he shrugs.

"You are in my group. We are co-leaders." My smile turns sweet. "Are you trying to corner me because your strategies aren't working?"

Pierre smiles bitterly. He places a hand on the top of the piano. I cringe as he move closer.

"I never knew you play." He changes the topic.

"You never took time to know."

Pierre scoots closer. He sits beside me. His hand slithers to my arm. "If I do now, will you let me?"

Abhorrence. Repugnance. My disgust simmers just underneath my seductive facade. I lift his chin, sliding my finger in his jaw line.

"I think you just ran out of time."