A Pessimist's Fiction

The Piana Man

I sat at the piano, playing softly. My wine was sitting beside me, untouched. A hand reached down to move the glass before taking it's spot. He put his arm around me, resting his hand on my waist.

"You're not bad," he whispered, "but you'll have to do better than that." I took his hand and removed it from my waist. I stood and walked to the other side of the room, grabbing my glass along the way. I stared out the crystal windows and looked at the city below, buildings lighting the night. I heard him walk up behind me.

"I'm not scared of you," I said calmly. He chuckled, "you should be," he said, amused. I turned to face him, my dress flowing around my ankles. I smiled up at his dark, soulless eyes.

"Everyone should be something, but we can't be something we're not." I said simply and began to walk around him before he grabbed my arm, his fingers leaving bruises on my exposed upper arm.

"You should stop lying to yourself," he growled, "it will make things easier in the end. When I see the life leave your eyes, I'll be the only one who can chose whether it's slow, or quick. Tortured, or painless. I am in control!" He squeezed my arm tighter. I reached up and caressed his face.

"Darling, you're too stressed. Maybe you should take some time off work," I remained calm, "that is, if you have a job. Or are you the worthless coward someone would have to be to kidnap and hold someone captive? I apologize for my lack of fear, but you chose the wrong person for this." I pulled up the right sleeve, the only sleeve of my dress, revealing a million scars. "You see, torture doesn't hurt when you've done it to yourself. Death isn't something to be afraid of, when you've tried for it. Maybe I'm fearless because I hope you will kill me. Maybe I'm ready to die." I mused, smiling into his eyes. he laughed and released my arm before walking closer to the window.

"This isn't about killing you, my dear, it's more about killing your father's soul. I was sent here for a reason, and that reason shall be carried out." He said simply. He walked back toward me and put his arm around my waist, guiding me back to the piano. "Play another song." he insisted, " maybe an original composition?"

I gingerly sat down and began to slowly play the song I wrote about my suicidal thoughts, I didn't sing though. The words were for me, not his ears.

"Oh, how I wish It didn't have to end like this," he mused, "but some things are meant to happen." I felt a point touch my side, slicing through my dress. The dagger teased at my skin. I turned to look at him, playing all the while.

"Don't feel sorry," I whispered, "just don't hesitate." I enunciated carefully, whispering barely audible. He kissed my cheek gently before pushing the knife into my side, not stopping until the blade was fully inserted. I looked deep into his eyes and saw slight remorse. He really wasn't as horrible as people would think. "Goodbye, Piano Man, I sense it won't be long until I see you again," I whispered confidently, before the world was out of view. With my dying breathe, I whispered, "I forgive you."