And Her Fingers Danced Across The Keys

A night?

An endless stir. A night-long bouquet of convulsions. The action of writhing in pain under the heavy burden of unforgiving memories.

Ice-like beads of cold sweat formed right under her fore-head hair-line, and descended almost all the way to her eyes.

Sudden awakenings.

A day?

Feelings of guilt combined with uneasiness washing over her soul.
Suffering shown upon her appearance.

Sun rays were no longer to be found in her eyes.They had become opaque.

Imprisoning freedom.
Calls of despair made by everything around her.
Worried looks.

Perhaps the most disturbing call was the duet made by her piano and the waves crashing into the cliffs underneath the villa.
A mournful call to their lost mistress, who no longer adorned air with her sound magic.

Sentences spoken by her father, and, much worse, by her mother, chaotically haunted her night dreams.
"It's okay, to miss her, Angie,"said her father, while she could distinctly hear her mother say "Hello, Ange." Again, her father came back with his once adorable laugh and afterwards said "Play something, Angie." Her mother never said anything except Hello, Ange.
The only visual memory of her mother was of her playing the piano with her back to Angelina, when she was but a little girl.

Days and nights were an endless row of unbearably painful memories, of haunting words and sounds and images.

As her father did his personal best to console the troubled teenager, she felt and showed no improvement. Everything was headed in a straight, bad, line.

Until one day. When everything got worse.