The Girl In The Window

Chapter 1

~Diana~

(Eight Years Ago)

~~~

Music flowed through the room, and down the halls. My fingers pressed delicately on the keys finding the right rhythm.

At this point the ache in my fingertips had travelled up to my wrists, the hours of playing without rest had caused my muscles to tense in an excruciating way. But I couldn't stop, I had to keep playing.

Then, I felt it, my lapse in concentration. But I continued to play, hopefully he wouldn't notice.

Once the song came to an end I waited nervously, perching on the edge of the piano stool.

His tall figure emerged in the doorway, the wooden cane in his hand came into view. He walked towards me, gazing down at the piano keys and then to my fingers.

″Did you make a mistake?″ He asked though he already knew I did. I couldn't lie.

I nodded, my eyes drooping from exhaustion.

″And what happens when you make a mistake?″ He asked, but already knowing the answer to that as well.

I sighed pointlessly; I couldn't change the inevitable. Swinging my legs over the side of the stool to face him, I put my hands out, palms pointing downwards.

I braced myself just in time as the hard splintering wood of the cane connected with my knuckles. I didn't cry or scream, just stared into the eyes of my tormentor.

″You skipped the final repetition and played the wrong chord. I do not tolerate laziness. Continue playing until you have done it correctly. There is no place in life for mistakes.″ He ordered.

I hated him. I hated him. I hated him.

I slowly repositioned myself in front of the piano. The only difference from before was the obvious bruising on my knuckles. My whole body ached but I ignored it.

Just as I was about to begin, a cold finger poked into the base of my spine, a reminder to sit up straight. I complied and began to fill the room with music once more.

~~~

The unpleasant memories grasped my mind as I stared at the Grand Piano, it was now covered in a thick layer of dust.

The memories of my father pushing me to my breaking point were still as vivid as ever. I remembered how he'd force me to play for people, selling my talent for money.

My father was a drunk, he could never hold a steady job meaning I was the only source of income for us.

With the money I earned we rented a small house, only able to afford the basic essentials, but once my father took what he needed to buy alcohol and drugs, it left us with next to nothing.

I would get scolded daily for not bringing in enough money, the constant abuse had its effect on me over the years.

What made it worse was that I couldn't just simply ask for help.

I'd be severely punished if I made a mistake during my performance. I still had scars from some of his brutal administrations.

I didn't play the Piano anymore, not since my whole life changed a few years ago.

My father kept me hidden away after that, only using me when he wanted something, usually money. The rest of the time I wasn't needed, and he'd just pretend that I didn't exist.