in my room ~ Armin Arlert

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The auditorium smelled like dust and old curtains.

And atop the stage sat a glorious grand piano.

Its age was apparent at first glance, but it looked to be meticulously cared for. Its black exterior reflected the harsh stage lights, revealing small scratches that had accumulated throughout the many years it had sat in the school's music room. Printed on the piano's side was a small elegant calligraphy that read Monroe; a custom stamp.

The audience eyed the piano in awe, their eyes flickering across its polished frame as they waited for the show to start again.

The lights in the auditorium dimmed, and a sharp spotlight overtook the stage.

Soon after, you stepped onto it.

Your small heels clacked noisily against the wooden floor in the quiet auditorium. You gracefully made your way toward the piano sitting patiently in the middle of the stage. You placed a tentative hand on the piano's fallboard before giving the audience a low bow.

The spotlight swallowed you whole.

Your vision was completely overtaken by the light, but you were unfazed. You paid no mind to the others in the room with you. At this very moment, the only thing you could see was the old piano sitting beside you.

You quickly took a seat on the piano stool, flattening your dress underneath yourself. Your feet settled against the pedals, though the pressure immediately sent a dull ache through your heels. You ignored it.

You raised the fallboard to reveal the row of immaculate keys that sat waiting before you.

There they were.

White.

Black.

Perfect.

Waiting.

You lifted your hands. Your fingers were already sore. You flexed them once beneath the cover of the piano, stretching the cramped joints before placing them atop the keys. The skin along your fingertips was tender from weeks of practice, and a small sting traveled through your right index finger as it rested against the first note.

You ignored that too.

You positioned yourself for the first note, then you took a deep breath and closed your eyes.

You began your piece.

Its exciting first few notes immediately gripped the audience. The old grand piano heaved beneath your fingers as you hammered onto its keyboard, pleading with it to coalesce with you as if it were the player and you the instrument.

You ignored the creaking.

Its aged strings never quite held the tune despite your best efforts, and its worn-out pedals groaned underneath your impatient foot. You focused solely on its singing.

No matter how weathered the piano became in the many years it had sat in the music room, its voice never faltered. And neither could you.

Your tired arms burned in agony as you played the same notes you had been practicing for months now with hardly any break. Your cramped fingers quickly settled into their usual numbness. The familiar pain traveled through your wrists and up your arms, but you welcomed the numbness when it came.

Numb was easier.

You settled into a deep concentration and soon you saw nothing, felt nothing. You allowed the music to carry through you like a vessel.