Ivory Keys and Guitar Strings

Dedicated to Fatima (ishine4youu). Look up the definition of flawless and her portrait is sure to be there. You're brilliant, babe. Don't ever change for anyone. x

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IVORY KEYS AND GUITAR STRINGS

 

❝ Well, I've walked this street.

Well,  I've walked this street before and everyone's locked up their door.

'Cause they heard me coming. And I've been running.

From what? I don't know. ❞

In the past few days, it became common knowledge that young Emma Blair had run away from her childhood home in Suffolk. She had performed the deed almost unknowingly, as her father’s rage had finally taken its toll on her troubled mind. Countless years of torment in a small flat was not the ideal living. Her mother had never wanted that for her. But it did not matter what her mother had once wanted. She was dead, and as such, could not help her daughter from the mere family she had left.

Emma carried her knapsack tiredly, her hands cold and her stomach empty. She had not eaten in several hours and the last meal she had, consisted of half a Twix bar and quarter bottle of water. It was not much, especially not for a girl who ate as much as she did. But she had to forget her hunger because there were more important things she needed to worry about.

One, being a place to stay.

The girl travelled silently along the streets, keeping the top of her jumper pulled around her head. It was a chilly night and she wished she could only run on home. Except home did not exist anymore. At least, not for the time being. Her father had had enough of the seventeen year old. She had no intelligence, no talent, no future. It bothered both individuals how much they had to put up with the other – and for what?

Nothing.

When the clock on her watch struck nine, Emma found herself standing on the steps of an old music store. It was utterly archaic and nearly falling off its hinges. It reminded her a lot of herself – barely alive, barely breathing. Carefully, she pushed open the door and moved inside. The smell of vanilla caught her attention, and in time, her hollow stomach grumbled. She patted the anterior of her body, hushing the organ who would not listen.

Her legs forced her take a trip around the shop, despite an eerie feeling demanding her to walk straight back out. She had never been one to listen to the rational voices in her head. In a way, that is what caused her the most trouble growing up. As Emma’s light brown eyes settled on the grand piano sat in the corner of the room, someone caught her arm. They had a firm grip, making her wince at the touch and immediately pull away.

“What are you doing?!”

Emma blinked into the darkness, making out the figure. It was a man, unfamiliar and angry. “I’m s-sorry. I thought you were open.”

“Well, we’re not. So get out.”

Stumbling, Emma shuffled back, her hips colliding with books on a table. All ten of them dropped to the ground with a thud. The girl’s heart picked up speed as the same hand grasped her arm and pulled her up harshly. She closed her eyes and expected the worst – the heavy collision of hand against face.

But nothing came.

“Who are you?”

Emma looked up, finally able to meet the eyes of the stranger. A gasp escaped her lips and just when she was about to fall back once more, the grip on her arm kept her still. He leaned in closer, inspecting the slash along her cheek. The blood had long dried and in its place sat a mark whose depth made the stranger ill.