Post by Viktor Rogers on Oct 16, 2015 21:18:45 GMT -5
It was a nice day outside and it wasn't much of a surprise that the auditorium was almost completely void of life. Even though chairs surrounded the stage, there was an empty sort of feeling brought by the high ceiling, pale walls and lack of sound. Crimson curtains were pulled to the side of the stage and there were instruments lying along the sides of it, but the bright lights took away the performance feel that the auditorium would've otherwise had. There was one lonely individual sitting in the room, who had his eyes tightly shut and his head in his left hand while the other one rested on his lap. He was almost completely slouched over the piano while his hair hung down in front of his eyes, covering the scars along his face. He looked almost as if he were a statue, as the only sign of movement that came from him were the occasional shift in body position and the slight movements of his shoulders as he breathed in and out.
Now, if one knew this boy at all, it's likely that they might die in shock from seeing him sit there in front of an instrument willingly, at least without shouting or yelling at someone. Even Vik himself wasn't so sure what he was doing. However, he felt bound down to the spot, as if he couldn't leave out of something that could only be comparable to morbid curiosity - at least, that's what it was for him. The piano sat there, taunting him and teasing him as a reminder of his deafness and of his failure as a musician and Vik was, for some reason, determined to prove it wrong. In reality, though, Vik's fear held him back more than the piano or even his deafness did: the whole idea that he couldn't be a musician was in his head. Sure, he probably wouldn't be able to be apart of a band, but being a solo musician would've been fine. But, he didn't know that. He was too busy blaming himself for past mistakes to even think about resolving them.
Anger was building up inside of Vik as he sat there, but at the same time there was an extreme feeling of sorrow that was almost overwhelming. He reached out his hand experimentally, but he stopped just as his finger hovered above a key on the piano. Vik hadn't touched an instrument for what seemed like forever, and he wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to change that now. He was stuck there, with his finger floating threateningly over one of the notes that he once had to memorize, A-22. He knew what it should sound like if he pressed it. Unwanted memories of playing came flowing back at the thought, although he'd never been the pianist of the band he was in. He'd only learned to play it because it was his mother's favourite instrument, but his band had had a much better piano player. That's why he'd taken up the drums. His eyes flickered over to the drums that were on the other side of the stage briefly, vaguely recognizing them as belonging to his roommate, Marcus. That didn't distract him for long, though, before his eyes were back on the key that his finger still hovered over.
It seemed like such a simple thing, really. All he had to do was release his muscles and allow his finger to fall onto the key. If he hit the note, he wouldn't hear anything anyways. It wouldn't change anything: he'd still be deaf and the piano would still be a piano. However, despite this, Vik felt like if he hit the note it'd symbolize something. He wasn't sure of what quite yet, but it would be some form of change and the ginger was scared of that. Already, sitting there in that room on his own and considering doing these things was significant, and he wasn't sure if he could take the next step and actually play. Of course, hitting one note is far from playing the instrument, but there was little to no difference between the two for the deaf boy. But, he still felt himself wanting to. He was drawn to it, and he couldn't lie about that forever. He had spent so much of his life surrounded by instruments and playing them, and denying their existence was unhealthy. So, despite himself, Vik pressed the key.
As he hit it, he felt the humming vibrations coming from the piano and he shuddered in response to it, fancying he could almost hear the note resonating through the room as he imagined it would. Warmth spread through him from his head to his toes as he imagined the full sound it probably made, filling the room with what could've been the beginning of a song if he had dared to play more. Vik even allowed himself a small smile: the rush of playing was something that he missed greatly. He held the key down for a few seconds, shutting his eyes tight and revelling in the memories that rushed through him.
Seconds later, the note ended abruptly as realized what he was doing. He yanked his hand away from the key as if he'd just touched a burning stove and his eyes snapped open. He was shaking a little, both from the previous excitement and pure hatred for both himself and the instrument. He sat there for a few moments with narrowed, untrusting eyes as he looked at the piano as if it was about to get up and bite him, before his gaze softened a little. He straightened his posture and brushed his hair back, slowly realizing that he had made far bigger of a deal of the whole situation than he had needed to. Surely, nothing would change. The idea that it would was irrational. No one had seen him, and he could pretend it had never happened: and he'd never have to touch an instrument again. That's when, in the corner of his eye, he saw movement at the door. In an instant, Vik was on his feet and glaring, muscles tensed in defence. As he realized who it was, he felt dread settle in the pit of his stomach. Of all the people in the world, it had to be him. "What the fuck do you want?"
Now, if one knew this boy at all, it's likely that they might die in shock from seeing him sit there in front of an instrument willingly, at least without shouting or yelling at someone. Even Vik himself wasn't so sure what he was doing. However, he felt bound down to the spot, as if he couldn't leave out of something that could only be comparable to morbid curiosity - at least, that's what it was for him. The piano sat there, taunting him and teasing him as a reminder of his deafness and of his failure as a musician and Vik was, for some reason, determined to prove it wrong. In reality, though, Vik's fear held him back more than the piano or even his deafness did: the whole idea that he couldn't be a musician was in his head. Sure, he probably wouldn't be able to be apart of a band, but being a solo musician would've been fine. But, he didn't know that. He was too busy blaming himself for past mistakes to even think about resolving them.
Anger was building up inside of Vik as he sat there, but at the same time there was an extreme feeling of sorrow that was almost overwhelming. He reached out his hand experimentally, but he stopped just as his finger hovered above a key on the piano. Vik hadn't touched an instrument for what seemed like forever, and he wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to change that now. He was stuck there, with his finger floating threateningly over one of the notes that he once had to memorize, A-22. He knew what it should sound like if he pressed it. Unwanted memories of playing came flowing back at the thought, although he'd never been the pianist of the band he was in. He'd only learned to play it because it was his mother's favourite instrument, but his band had had a much better piano player. That's why he'd taken up the drums. His eyes flickered over to the drums that were on the other side of the stage briefly, vaguely recognizing them as belonging to his roommate, Marcus. That didn't distract him for long, though, before his eyes were back on the key that his finger still hovered over.
It seemed like such a simple thing, really. All he had to do was release his muscles and allow his finger to fall onto the key. If he hit the note, he wouldn't hear anything anyways. It wouldn't change anything: he'd still be deaf and the piano would still be a piano. However, despite this, Vik felt like if he hit the note it'd symbolize something. He wasn't sure of what quite yet, but it would be some form of change and the ginger was scared of that. Already, sitting there in that room on his own and considering doing these things was significant, and he wasn't sure if he could take the next step and actually play. Of course, hitting one note is far from playing the instrument, but there was little to no difference between the two for the deaf boy. But, he still felt himself wanting to. He was drawn to it, and he couldn't lie about that forever. He had spent so much of his life surrounded by instruments and playing them, and denying their existence was unhealthy. So, despite himself, Vik pressed the key.
As he hit it, he felt the humming vibrations coming from the piano and he shuddered in response to it, fancying he could almost hear the note resonating through the room as he imagined it would. Warmth spread through him from his head to his toes as he imagined the full sound it probably made, filling the room with what could've been the beginning of a song if he had dared to play more. Vik even allowed himself a small smile: the rush of playing was something that he missed greatly. He held the key down for a few seconds, shutting his eyes tight and revelling in the memories that rushed through him.
Seconds later, the note ended abruptly as realized what he was doing. He yanked his hand away from the key as if he'd just touched a burning stove and his eyes snapped open. He was shaking a little, both from the previous excitement and pure hatred for both himself and the instrument. He sat there for a few moments with narrowed, untrusting eyes as he looked at the piano as if it was about to get up and bite him, before his gaze softened a little. He straightened his posture and brushed his hair back, slowly realizing that he had made far bigger of a deal of the whole situation than he had needed to. Surely, nothing would change. The idea that it would was irrational. No one had seen him, and he could pretend it had never happened: and he'd never have to touch an instrument again. That's when, in the corner of his eye, he saw movement at the door. In an instant, Vik was on his feet and glaring, muscles tensed in defence. As he realized who it was, he felt dread settle in the pit of his stomach. Of all the people in the world, it had to be him. "What the fuck do you want?"