Decrescendo
Oneshot.
Bob couldn’t quite remember when he first came across the piano.
It could easily be an ancient family heirloom, he surmised. His parents had always made it a point to know their history, though it mattered little to him. He thought it more likely that he acquired the instrument at an antique sale or something equally lacking in glamour. Not that its origins really meant anything of importance.
He dropped his keys on the counter and let his leather jacket fall off his shoulders, neatly folding it and laying it over the back of a chair. It had been yet another weary day for him, full of speculative questions from the army of cameras and microphones stacked haphazardly outside his front door.
“Do they really think I’m going to tell them anything different?” he mused to himself as he crossed the room. He slid the shoes off his feet and set them next to the chair serving as a coat hanger for his jacket, making sure they matched up perfectly and rested in their usual place. “It’s not like new information is suddenly going to appear out of thin air.”
He strolled over to the fridge and opened the door, reaching in and taking out one bottle from a cluster of many. He gave the door a gentle kick to close it while unscrewing the lid of the bottle with a quiet snap of its metal button. He brought the drink to his lips and drank deeply, enjoying the calming taste of the chocolate-laced, coffee-flavored milk more so than usual. It had been a difficult day to begin with, not even taking the inexorable press into account.
Bob studied the pale jade tint of his home’s walls and smiled softly, taking another sip of the drink and feeling more tension wash away as he did so. He walked along the wall and glanced out each window separately, pausing to record every detail of the sunlit ocean view in his mind. He could almost hear the quiet notes of a piano piece being played nearby, but he blinked once and quickly realized it was only his imagination. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“So, Gerard, have things been pretty quiet for most of the day?” he called, glancing at the unmoving, dark form resting at the end of the row of windows. It took up most of the corner with a cloud of shadows set apart from the rest of the light tone of the room. He smiled and began pacing in that direction.
“Let’s see if you sound any better today. You were a little off-key last time I heard you…sharp, I think.”
He took a seat on the leather-cushioned bench and set the bottle on a wooden panel even with the row of keys before him, letting another smile grace his lips. It had taken him so many hours of nonstop work to restore the piano that at times he had been unsure if it was really worth it. But every day, he came home and admired his work once again, and was assured that there was nothing to worry about anymore. The task had been a delicate one, mostly since several pieces of the piano were even older than him.
After lifting up the wooden housing, he slid the protective length of black satin off of the keys and folded it into a perfect square as always, then picked up the bottle and set it on top of the cloth as a cushion to protect the instrument’s delicate finish that had already begun to wear thin. He took a final swallow of the cold coffee drink and returned it to its place. Lacing his fingers together and bending them backwards to remove any air built up between his crackling joints, he placed his fingertips on the keys and began to play.
The song began soft and slow at first with an even progression of chords and a melody mixed in somewhere. It picked up within seconds as he began to remember how the upper octave always seemed to sound more clarion than the lower, more forced notes; or as he again noticed how some of the older keys needed to be refinished and smoothed out since they were still so jagged along the edges. His finger slipped off of middle G and caused a thin slit of red to appear, slicing cleanly through one of so many similar scars on his fingertips.
Bob remembered what it was like to painstakingly relieve the tension from the piano wires before removing each perfect, ivory key one by one, only to replace them with the uneven lengths of chipped bone he was running his fingers across now. He had managed to clear them of any living tissue using some bleach, but that hadn’t removed all of the bloodspots. This didn’t bother him, though; if anything, it added a more personal touch.
The song became infused with more feeling and emotion than he had ever placed into it before. The melody grew more pronounced as he added small grace notes to it and used the foot pedals – composed of a mosaic of tarsals he had taken days to put together – to carry the chords on without having to put too many more calluses on the pads of his fingers.
“I remember how difficult you can be,” he said aloud, careful not to miss a note. “Reminds me of how you always used to act. So unrefined and out of tune before I came along and helped you out.”
The sharp snap of a rusted wire sounded from within the piano and instantly set him on edge as one key fell weakly against the frame. He pounded on the keys with more force than usual, and the song responded aggressively. He knew he should back off lest he ruin the piece altogether, but by this time he was beyond the point of calming down.
“You fought it, too, Gerard,” Bob continued. “But in the end, everything worked out for the best, didn’t it? Everyone loved you. They worshipped your music. You sounded so much better.”
Another snapping of wire, and he slammed the ribbed keys into the keyboard as if attacking them. The song had slipped into a minor key, and as he played a run into the upper octave with ever-increasing tension, the half empty bottle tilted too far towards him and fell onto the keyboard, becoming caught between two keys. He angrily hammered one fist on that high F and G, remaining undaunted as the object shattered and spilled sugar-laden milk all over the keys. More cuts appeared on his hands as shards of glass embedded themselves in his skin searing from the pain and the sudden shock of cold liquid.
“I stayed in the background the whole time while you enjoyed your precious spotlight!” He was shouting now, all the while massacring the song and the keys into fragments and splinters of bone and glass and letting the blood flow out of his fingertips like milk from the broken bottle. “But one day…oh, one day, Gerard…”
His tone suddenly dropped into a much softer state, as did the song. Subido piano, he knew it was called. This was not how the piece normally went, and he knew this well. But it was necessary.
“One day, you forgot that I was the one who made you who you were. You would have been nothing without me. You were nothing. And now-”
He pressed onto the damper pedal so hard that he could feel it crack and crumble beneath his sock-covered feet, allowing the slow notes he played to echo in a single chord of disharmony. The sound bounced off of all the surrounding walls and returned to his ears with no musical tone that he could detect. He slid the bench away from the keys, the broken pedal carrying out the gradually softening notes as he stood up and stared down at his destroyed handiwork, blood dripping off of his slashed fingertips and onto the floor in a puddle of red ink.
“Now you’re nothing but a piano.”
It could easily be an ancient family heirloom, he surmised. His parents had always made it a point to know their history, though it mattered little to him. He thought it more likely that he acquired the instrument at an antique sale or something equally lacking in glamour. Not that its origins really meant anything of importance.
He dropped his keys on the counter and let his leather jacket fall off his shoulders, neatly folding it and laying it over the back of a chair. It had been yet another weary day for him, full of speculative questions from the army of cameras and microphones stacked haphazardly outside his front door.
“Do they really think I’m going to tell them anything different?” he mused to himself as he crossed the room. He slid the shoes off his feet and set them next to the chair serving as a coat hanger for his jacket, making sure they matched up perfectly and rested in their usual place. “It’s not like new information is suddenly going to appear out of thin air.”
He strolled over to the fridge and opened the door, reaching in and taking out one bottle from a cluster of many. He gave the door a gentle kick to close it while unscrewing the lid of the bottle with a quiet snap of its metal button. He brought the drink to his lips and drank deeply, enjoying the calming taste of the chocolate-laced, coffee-flavored milk more so than usual. It had been a difficult day to begin with, not even taking the inexorable press into account.
Bob studied the pale jade tint of his home’s walls and smiled softly, taking another sip of the drink and feeling more tension wash away as he did so. He walked along the wall and glanced out each window separately, pausing to record every detail of the sunlit ocean view in his mind. He could almost hear the quiet notes of a piano piece being played nearby, but he blinked once and quickly realized it was only his imagination. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“So, Gerard, have things been pretty quiet for most of the day?” he called, glancing at the unmoving, dark form resting at the end of the row of windows. It took up most of the corner with a cloud of shadows set apart from the rest of the light tone of the room. He smiled and began pacing in that direction.
“Let’s see if you sound any better today. You were a little off-key last time I heard you…sharp, I think.”
He took a seat on the leather-cushioned bench and set the bottle on a wooden panel even with the row of keys before him, letting another smile grace his lips. It had taken him so many hours of nonstop work to restore the piano that at times he had been unsure if it was really worth it. But every day, he came home and admired his work once again, and was assured that there was nothing to worry about anymore. The task had been a delicate one, mostly since several pieces of the piano were even older than him.
After lifting up the wooden housing, he slid the protective length of black satin off of the keys and folded it into a perfect square as always, then picked up the bottle and set it on top of the cloth as a cushion to protect the instrument’s delicate finish that had already begun to wear thin. He took a final swallow of the cold coffee drink and returned it to its place. Lacing his fingers together and bending them backwards to remove any air built up between his crackling joints, he placed his fingertips on the keys and began to play.
The song began soft and slow at first with an even progression of chords and a melody mixed in somewhere. It picked up within seconds as he began to remember how the upper octave always seemed to sound more clarion than the lower, more forced notes; or as he again noticed how some of the older keys needed to be refinished and smoothed out since they were still so jagged along the edges. His finger slipped off of middle G and caused a thin slit of red to appear, slicing cleanly through one of so many similar scars on his fingertips.
Bob remembered what it was like to painstakingly relieve the tension from the piano wires before removing each perfect, ivory key one by one, only to replace them with the uneven lengths of chipped bone he was running his fingers across now. He had managed to clear them of any living tissue using some bleach, but that hadn’t removed all of the bloodspots. This didn’t bother him, though; if anything, it added a more personal touch.
The song became infused with more feeling and emotion than he had ever placed into it before. The melody grew more pronounced as he added small grace notes to it and used the foot pedals – composed of a mosaic of tarsals he had taken days to put together – to carry the chords on without having to put too many more calluses on the pads of his fingers.
“I remember how difficult you can be,” he said aloud, careful not to miss a note. “Reminds me of how you always used to act. So unrefined and out of tune before I came along and helped you out.”
The sharp snap of a rusted wire sounded from within the piano and instantly set him on edge as one key fell weakly against the frame. He pounded on the keys with more force than usual, and the song responded aggressively. He knew he should back off lest he ruin the piece altogether, but by this time he was beyond the point of calming down.
“You fought it, too, Gerard,” Bob continued. “But in the end, everything worked out for the best, didn’t it? Everyone loved you. They worshipped your music. You sounded so much better.”
Another snapping of wire, and he slammed the ribbed keys into the keyboard as if attacking them. The song had slipped into a minor key, and as he played a run into the upper octave with ever-increasing tension, the half empty bottle tilted too far towards him and fell onto the keyboard, becoming caught between two keys. He angrily hammered one fist on that high F and G, remaining undaunted as the object shattered and spilled sugar-laden milk all over the keys. More cuts appeared on his hands as shards of glass embedded themselves in his skin searing from the pain and the sudden shock of cold liquid.
“I stayed in the background the whole time while you enjoyed your precious spotlight!” He was shouting now, all the while massacring the song and the keys into fragments and splinters of bone and glass and letting the blood flow out of his fingertips like milk from the broken bottle. “But one day…oh, one day, Gerard…”
His tone suddenly dropped into a much softer state, as did the song. Subido piano, he knew it was called. This was not how the piece normally went, and he knew this well. But it was necessary.
“One day, you forgot that I was the one who made you who you were. You would have been nothing without me. You were nothing. And now-”
He pressed onto the damper pedal so hard that he could feel it crack and crumble beneath his sock-covered feet, allowing the slow notes he played to echo in a single chord of disharmony. The sound bounced off of all the surrounding walls and returned to his ears with no musical tone that he could detect. He slid the bench away from the keys, the broken pedal carrying out the gradually softening notes as he stood up and stared down at his destroyed handiwork, blood dripping off of his slashed fingertips and onto the floor in a puddle of red ink.
“Now you’re nothing but a piano.”