A Melancholy Melody

Hello--- do you have a name? Are you my mentor? Or a trainee? I must tell you... I do love teaching a student. Being a mentor and helping the young... is a privilege so few receive. Will you join me? Let me teach you? Come in. Open the door. Take a seat. Feel the keys beneath your fingers. Allow yourself to feel the stroke of a brush. Your first.. and most likely last song. The title: Pain.

You tell me your name is Melody. As you enter, you must realize there are instant sparks. For how can there not be? The relationship between a teacher and the student, between a maestro and his orchestra ... is unique. Special. Rare.... It is tasteful. Joyful. It allows you to bring the colours inside your mind and craft them onto a fresh pallet, imbedding them and creating permanence. It creates solidarity and an unbreakable bond between you and the student.

You sit on the chair. It is round and it turns with a minor squeak. This makes you smile. You have a beautiful smile. I take a picture- remembering it forever, before the carving of the mind. The best thing about you, perhaps, are your eyes. They twinkle as you laugh. They brighten as you hit your first note on the piano.

As you play the music- a new song begins in my mind- all shaped after you. My beautiful student. Green eyed beauty. Love eternal. My saviour- and yet you do not know it. I have known you for a mere moment- and yet forever- can you not feel the music between us? Just imagine- IMAGINE- the adventures we can have- the songs we can write- the symphonies we shall create together.

Suddenly! I am a painter. A modern Leonardo Davinci. I shall paint your beauty. Among the rainbow skies and inside my own canvas. Can you feel the bond between us? The need to draw you, create and paint you- have you inside of me and me in you- all while looking in your beautiful green eyes- is inescapable.

I express myself to you- kindly and softly- for I am a nice one- all artists are. You smile, unsurely, and I erase it away, for surely that is a mistake- one cannot resist the music.

The next word from your mouth is harsh, a misplaced forte in our symphony. "No." I laugh, momentarily confused, for we are soul mates, and think as one... and I realize. You are confused. You are a student- innocent- nothing more- and yet- you have a need, perhaps even a desire to be instructed- taught- and dare I say- mastered.

And so, we shall begin.

First lesson my dear: There are two kinds of joy in the world. The first you obtain from sexual endeavors and their misconduct. And so, we shall begin with the first, for what a fool we would be to start at the end- spoilers.

We begin as all stories do, with flesh upon flesh. In and out. Bodies mixing. Desires burning. A tree has fallen in the forest- why do you not respond- why do you not answer my call? WHY? Instead you lay here, all pathetic and whimpering. Do you forget my dear? Did you forget our love- that we are soul mates? That is okay. You are young. So young. So, I shall teach you. We begin from the top. A kiss on the eyelid. A trace of the tongue to the lips. In and out. A quiet moan of pleasure- from you! Alas your understanding begins. Your elbow hits a key, and I cannot help but smile, for you are already making music. Next is the DE concerto- close to the finale. La fin.

Let me ask you. Have you ever felt a thrum inside of you- the rhythmic moving of a finger back and forth, up and down, until you shatter? Let me teach you. Watch you arch. Finish your own little symphony. Now, it is my turn. You struggle against your bonds- you are so pure- so innocent- a real virgin Mary- oh how your blood must shine. Just in and out. Once. Maybe twice. Who knows. For now, you believe. You believe in our destiny- alas! You must believe it- believing you have come to me of your own free will. Your womanhood is intact. For how you can bare to believe- or at least in your eyes- that you were taken advantage of. Someone who loves you doesn't do that- right? I would never hurt you my sweet. You love it and me. We speak in synchronized breathes and heart beats. Remember communication is key- even if you remain nonverbal.

Though I must say, perhaps even apologize, for pretending to be someone I was not. For pretending to be your teacher, when really it is so much more. For we must forget the piano and the beginning. We must start anew and finish strong- DE concerto- FORTE.

You are sagging now- giving into my will- finally you understand. Remember my flower, you are beautiful- do not forget. And yet- you still resist. Now it is time... I believe you are a brilliant actress- womanhood gone or not. You make a beautiful puppet- and I am the most talented puppeteer. Now let me begin. Do you remember I told you- oh so long ago- there are two lessons. We have achieved the first- some without your knowledge- now for the second.

The other- the best kind- comes from the painful and soulful cries of the innocent. Their begging, as you slowly nibble on their flesh. As it is sliced from their body, and they are forced to watch, for their eyelids are stapled shut. Their eyes widening, and tears sliding down- oh how salty they taste- as you run your tongue across your lips, before placing their fresh meat- flesh- into your mouth. As they watch you take a gulp, and the food descend, and prepare for another bite, their eyes attempt to shut in horror. Their eyelids stretch and you prance over as they scream in pain, licking the tears from their face- after all every meal needs an extra sprinkle of salt.

In the next moment- you have an idea- it is new and bright and burning- like the sun- for you- are the brightest- the best of them all- you are a genius- and a composer. Now it is time to dance. First you must find the song, pick and choose all the right notes. Create a symphony- a cacophony of sounds- a triumphant orchestra. And so, you begin. With the stroke of a pen- or is it a blade- for now you cannot tell- and are a whirlwind of colour creating your masterpiece- all in the name of love!

You begin at the top of the scale- C. Beginning to cut, and a stroke, small at first- with the brush. Cutting away, edges around the face- to make a mask of a perfect porcelain doll. Their flesh is red underneath- the perfect shade to add to your rainbow pallet. "Just a few drops" you whisper. You peel it off slowly- the mask for your new puppet- relishing in the squelching and screaming- such a beautiful high note you have created!

It goes on top. I slowly sew it into my skin- for we are soul mates and must become one. And really, truly, I must admit the needle, the puppeteer's tool does sting- just a little. But you are smart- you are brave. And most importantly I am here to help you- and united- we can handle anything.

Step two- for every puppet needs strings. You bend over, allowing me to snip- thank you dear! Your back is pure white, fresh from the scars of the blade. One slice- quick and deep- is all it will take. And string sewn in. One. Two. Three. You make a beautiful Frankenstein.

Step three- arms. For everyone needs a hand to hold and beginners need guidance. This my dear is the only area you are not perfect. Few scars, old and new, pale and others shining, litter your arms. This must be fixed. Painted. You are truly a beautiful doll. I dip into my pallet- red is your colour- covering them up- till you resemble a beautiful Russian doll. Beautiful outside, more treasures on the in- and soon to be discovered. Have I told you I loved you? Please remember. For I am a nice artist. I promise.

Step Four- The feet. For no dancer can have two left feet. This must be perfected. Shall we begin. Listen to your instructor- the one you love- who knows you best. One- two- three- four. Isn't the sound of flesh on bone breaking- that glorious snap and a whimper- perfect. A high F. In piano forte. You truly are a masterpiece.

Step five- The finale. You are so beautiful- please do remember. Alas, every piece comes to an end, and ever musicians' piece must come from the heart. And so, I begin to carve. In and out- just like step one. You whimper, and it blends beautifully, elevating into a scream. It has been ripped out and the song is over. You have passed and are now a master.

The artist has his art. The puppeteer and puppet are one. Till next time.

Coda.