Nat being Nat

Piano

Sitting on the cushioned bench, I lifted my hands and placed them on the keyboard, feeling the cold, smooth keys under my fingers.

I still remember when I first got a piano, the excitement that filled my mind. I wouldn't stop playing it. I'd play until I fall asleep, placing my head on the keyboard.

Now, it's a burden, a chore that I have to complete in order to do the things that I want. It's no longer a hobby, a thing I do in my free time. It no longer makes me relaxed and happy, instead, it makes me stressed out and upset.

Playing the exam pieces that I hate, the familiar tune sending needles to my ears, I couldn't help but tear up a bit, remembering every note I've played wrongly.

Scales. The thing that I hate the most. The keyboard was covered with pricks, stinging my fingers everytime I tried to press the keys.

'Play this. Play that.' I never get to choose what I want to play. Baroque, classical and romantic. None of the songs seemed to express how I feel.

I snapped back to reality, chills running up my back because of the serious atmosphere in the exam room.

I failed at everything. The scales were a mess. The pieces were total crap. I couldn't remember anything from the aural part. Not to mention the sight reading part.

I felt myself trembling, fear and disappointment filled my mind. The adjudicator's cold stare bore a hole in my heart. I just squeezed my eyes shut and hoped that I passed.

I stepped out of the room, instantly bombarded with questions about the exam by my parents. "I fucked up the scales," I couldn't tell them about anything else, they'd definitely kill me.

"Ha, I told you to practice more." With that, the emotionless face I've put on had two streams traveling down it.

I stood in front of my piano, remembering all the unpleasant memories. I felt the cold surface. I felt the pricks on the keyboard.

I should hate the piano. I really should. I shouldn't play it to stop it from torturing me. But it's vines wrap around me and pull me back to it everytime I try to leave. The pricks seem to vanish everytime I start playing the songs that I like. Everything turns into sugar and cotton and all things nice.

You make me confused. But I love you, piano.