Legacy

01 |Suck it up, Sweetheart

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01 |Suck it up, Sweetheart

“We all die. The goal isn’t to live forever. The goal is to create something that will” – Chuck Palahniuk

*** 

        Ashton’s nimble fingers graced the piano, bruising the sleek ivory keys with a gentle force as a haunting melody whispered from his fingertips, in a voluminous crescendo as opposed to the soft, fluttering swell of notes from my clarinet.

A lush melody, intense with sound, engulfed the practice room as my fingers stroked the ebony clarinet, descending to a low pitch as I hit the final note.

        “Ashton, your fingers trembled on the last measure, faltering which made the note end too soon. You rushed through the piece, and skipped notes in order to keep up. Rehearse it on Friday and over the weekend, at home.” A steely, disapproving bark emitted past Mrs. Edward’s fuchsia lips, which were set in a perpetual, pursed frown.

She cast me a glance, peering over her rather peaked, haughty nose – a subtle harshness glimmering in the depths of her frigid cerulean irises.

        “Aspen, as always. Good work, run through the duet with Ashton several times, so that you’re prepared for Monday’s session.” She remarked.

I nodded, a tiny yet utterly perceivable smile dancing on my roseate lips – too startled to say anything, as her loud voice made me flinch.

Mrs. Edwards stalked out of the practice room, likely to go fetch her seventh cup of coffee. Her stilettos pierced the resounding silence, like a cracking whip – snapping and echoing like a bullet. Just like her personality.

        Ashton ran a hand through his mocha hair, the gold shards dancing within illuminated by the brilliant arrows of sunlight emitted past the large, bay-window pane. His hazel eyes glimmered, sculpted with a deepened, engulfed landscape of coffee – a color that appeared mesmerizing.     

His pale, rose-tinted lips upturned in a frightening scowl that was tainted with his uninhibited anger. His dark, tanned complexion was tainted with ferocious anger – represented in red.

The veins and muscles in his forearm flexed as he clenched his hand at the nape of his neck, the other tucked in the pocket of his dark jeans. His periwinkle sweater lifted with his motions, outlining each chiseled indentations and writhing ripple of sinuous flesh.

        “Dammit, doesn’t she know piano isn’t my forte? I’m a cellist.”  He growled, furiously.

        “Ash, she knows mom signed us up for about twenty million classes when we were younger. After all, the Henderson’s excel in. Every. Little. Thing.”  I uttered with a drawl, emphasizing my last words with a sympathetic smile.

         “What was that? Six – seven years ago? I can’t be expected to be a master at something I haven’t touched in a while.” He grumbled, adjusting his plaid dress shirt beneath his sweater.

        “Well actually, you’re a Henderson. It’s in your genes to be frightfully amazing in everything. Including things you’ve never learned.” I said with an amused smirk creasing my glossed lips, as I ran a hand through my hair.

As harsh as it may have seemed, it was the truth. Westwood Preparatory was notorious for their excellence in academics and their extracurricular classes; mainly centered on music.