My fingers ached. I've been practicing my piano piece for hours on end without a break, trying to perfect the song that seemed to hate me. I lifted my trembling fingers, wondering how many more rounds I could go before completely crippling my joints. My obsessive thoughts were finally interrupted by a gurgle from my stomach, reminding me that I hadn't eaten since my performance last night.
I had been invited to play piano in a senior home yesterday. I had been so certain at the time that I was ready for it. I had been working on Chopin's Nocturne No. 20 in C Sharp Minor for months, in fact, almost a full year. I had spent more time curling my hair than squeezing in extra practice time before my performance, confident that I'd do well without it. However, there had been one component that I had overlooked. I had stage fright.
I froze and fumbled and made a fool of myself that evening. Even though no one laughed out of respect, I could hear their chuckles and giggles bounce around the room, louder than the accidental harmony I made through the keys. That night, I vowed to never play that cursed piece again.
My thoughts were cut off once again by a grumble from my stomach. I made my way to the kitchen, slightly limping as my right foot took a toll from flooring the damper pedal all morning. With my shaking hands, I poured myself a glass of milk and chugged it, hoping it would subdue my hunger for a few more hours.
In front of the percussion instrument again, I closed my eyes and envisioned my hands as graceful as a swan, dancing over the keys, making a melody smooth like that of its feathers, but once my fingers hit the black and white surface, my fingers turned into a mud caked crow, stomping uncontrollably, creating a sound worse than its own squack. I layed down on the length of the bench and covered my face with my black wings. Why was I trying so hard, especially on a piece I loathed?
I had woken up to a call from my piano teacher this morning, confirming my attendance at our year end Christmas party and asking me to join the recital section of it. My immediate response would have been no, however, my pride had told me that I had to prove to both my teacher and I that I was capable of persevering. I had accepted her request.
I spent the rest of my day struggling to keep both my fingers and my sanity together. I practiced up until the very last moment, almost leaving my house in pajamas because of it.
I made it to the party, hair uncombed and out of breath. When I saw the size of the crowd, my irrational fear of public humiliation crept up and clouded my mind; my fingers started to tremble again. I heard my name being called, signalling that it was my turn to perform. The exact events between my first and last notes became a big white blur.
There was a silence from the crowd while I played and it lasted until my last note faded into nothing. Suddenly, there was a loud applause, but the sound of clapping hands were drowned out by my own blank thoughts.
It took a while before the feeling of accomplishment washed over me fully. All those hours of practicing had paid off and I couldn't be any prouder of myself.
A loud growl from my stomach brought me back to reality. I lifted my hands to grab some much needed nutrients from the refreshments table when I saw something I only ever saw behind closed eyes. My begrimed black feathers had been traded for wonderful white ones.
