September 5th, 9:32am
I hear the school bell ringing the same shrill, whistle-type clanging through the hallways as I walk to my classroom. My blood-stained fingers grip the cold, metal handle of the door and I swing it open. My desk was exactly as I left it before the holidays; every pen lined up with precisely 2cm between each one. I lay my coffee on the music-note patterned coaster a student gave to me 4 years ago.
As I walk over to the piano, my fingers brush against the posters of classical composers with their curled, dog-eared corners protruding from the wall. I have the urge to re-tack the corners but I remind myself that I am not a perfectionist. The soft brush of my hiking boots against the carpet makes my ears tingle; over the holidays I forget how much I actually miss the music rooms.
I eventually make my way to the piano stool and I adjust the height before sitting on it. The seat feels unusually warm; somebody must've used this before school started. I lift the cover and begin to play Beethoven's Grande Sonata Pathètique. The warm, luscious music echoes around the room and melts my ears; the glossy keys of the piano slide under my fingers.
The bustle of students outside the room interupts my piece and my hands drop to my sides. I open the door, letting them enter; I recognise this class as my new Year 9 class. They choose their seats and I ask for silence.
The squeaking of chairs reminds me of the café and I take a time to compose myself. A hand rises and I nod in their direction. They ask of the blood coating my hand and I brush the question away quickly; engaging in conversation about my private life, even if it is about something as petty as a papercut, is something I am not familiar with at all.
Since my sister and I became orphans, we realised that private lives are called "private" for a reason; when people ask, they either receive the harsh truth or a comforting lie. For the same reason, I don't date. When the wrong person gives you the right attention at a lonely time in life, you think that they're the one; it's either make it or break it. It sounds selfish, but people are not worth breaking hearts over.
Why fall in love when you can fall into the fiery pits of hell?
Today's class is on the Romantic era of music; a few start to play various Chopin works on the piano, whilst others focus on Schumann and Liszt. Chopin is, and has always been, my favourite composer; the beauty of his works astound me.
10:47am:
Once the class is dismissed, I rush to the piano and my fingertips brush gently against the keys before I start playing Chopin's Raindrop Prelude. The pedal note of the piece relaxes my mood and I instantly become entranced by the music.
As my fingers glide along the keys, I don't see a figure leaning against the doorframe. I hear the soft shuffling of rubber-soled trainers at the door and I stop, my arms dropping to my sides. The figure turned away when they notice me looking and I turn my eyes away, not wanting to involve myself with anyone or to confront anyone volentarily. My eyes lock to the ground as I wait for the sound of the footsteps to fade away again. I couldn't hear anything but the trees rustling through the open window.
"I really enjoyed that; please keep playing," a soft voice rings out, "please don't stop."
The voice is soft and enticing; without a second thought to mind, my hands reach out and resume playing the B section of the prelude. The gentle sotto voce section fills the room and I can hear the figure shuffling where they stand. I hear the rubbing of their hand against the doorframe and I take a chance to look up.
At the doorframe stood a tall, slim young woman with perfectly curled ringlets, sliding her hand up and down the wooden frame. Her eyes widen when mine meet hers and the corners of her mouth tilt upwards in acknowledgement; I avert my eyes downwards again and I feel my cheeks burning with intense heat.
As I play the last dominant chord, I hear her footsteps gradually come towards me.
