Dusted Ivory

Chapter 1

Silence fills the air as it always has. No one ever bothers to enter the sad room that I've come to call home. The walls were padded in grey, though not as they would be in a mental hospital. More as though any sound made in here was meant to be kept a secret, and the padding was the last defence against curious ears waiting to spread the sounds like they were celebrity rumours. Of course, nobody ever came in to whisper their secrets through their fingers anymore, so the padding had grown dirty and mouldy and damn-near useless as time wore on.

I grew too. I became dusty and discoloured. And of course the last person who played me had left my lid up, so my keys had become as yellow as a aging mans teeth and horribly out of tune. My existence was a sad one, though not entirely lonely.

In our dusty old prison there also sat a set of drums with skins so loose nobody could drum on them anymore. They were never really used that often anyways, so I'm sure nobody misses them. There were also a couple of string instruments, an acoustic guitar and a violin, to be precise. Both had once been beautiful creations, with incredible curves, beautiful stains, and, when played correctly, both had at one time produced some of the most mesmerizing music anyone in a 10 mile radius had listened to in a long time. Now they weren't much more than discoloured, misshapen lumps of wood with strings so frail they'd snap at the slightest touch.

And then, there was me. Once, I was magnificent. Charcoal black, beautiful curves, and ivory keys that sang with a touch. My pedals weren't rusted and my strings were in tune. You know, I'd often get dragged from this room into a much larger one, full of people. They would always stare in awe as my maestro caressed my keys with such grace and such care. No one ever dared to abuse me, for I was too beautiful to ruin. Oh, those were the days. I was in tune, I was used, I was cared about. But all that vanished suddenly.

The only person who still played me every day had gotten up from his practicing once. He'd said he'd be right back, that he wasn't feeling too well. But I haven't seen him since. When had turned the corner just out of my sight there were screams, screams for help, for an ambulance. My maestro had gone somewhere and I was pretty sure that he wasn't coming back.

From that day forward I sat patiently, like a dog waiting for it's owner. No one had stopped by in so long. No body cared anymore. Everyone forgot, everyone left. Nobody wanted to come in this room, everyone avoided it like the plague.  Maybe they thought it was cursed, maybe they thought I was cursed. Or maybe they just forgot. Either way it had been a long time since I'd seen a person. I've lost track of exactly how long it's been. Weeks? Months? Years? I had stopped caring.

Until he walked in.

_______________

New book yay! I've been wanting to publish this ever since I got the idea a couple weeks ago, but I promised myself I'd get to 5 pre-written chapters before publishing it. I'm so excited!

What do you guys think?

Thanks for reading!