(no subject)
Dec. 12th, 2001 08:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kuangningLyssa leaned forward, eyes shut, brow furrowed in concentration. Her hair spilled around her drawn-up knees, and her toes tangled themselves in the blankets, unheeded, as the music rose to fill the room. Softly, at first sweetly, she played, light-hearted melodies almost concealing the undercurrent of pain. She played the song the wind sang as it threw around the winter leaves, and the song of the waves bringing the sandcastles to ruin. All in fun, all in fun... and then, softly, tenderly, she piped the song of the sandcastle, the song of the younglings' dreams demolished, and the very room changed around her.
Through the open window, the breezes stirred, as though disturbed themselves by the ceaseless trills, and her tears dried unnoticed on her cheeks as the darker sounds stained the melody, and the song's question became, why? She gave up, then, the slight attempt at controlling the turn the music was taking, for the joy was not in her, and she gave over to the dissonances, giving voice to her own ache.
Raw pain, then, filled the room, as surely as if the piping had given it substance. The lamp on the dresser flickered, then broke. The walls were stripped of every stuffed animal, every statuette, everything that was not part of the walls. What was rigid shattered, crescendo by crescendo. What was not rigid was torn, seams giving way, threads parting, as if every tiny molecule were suddenly possessed of the irresistible urge to get as far away from every other as possible.
And over, around, and through the destruction, she wove the killing notes, until it seemed she had drained her heart of every drop of anger, every ounce of hatred, wiped every thought of bitterness from her mind. Like spring creeping back after the last hard freeze, then, the song changed.
She never ceased to play. Small fingers gripped the pipe so tightly that its markings were imprinted upon her, and her tears seemed to be as much for the physical pain she was causing herself by holding it thus, as for the heartache she was lancing with her tune. Even as the melody deepened, sweetened, trembling forgiveness and renewal poured out note by note, the small body did not relax.
When at last she took her lips from the pipe and opened her eyes, all was as it had been before she began.
Through the open window, the breezes stirred, as though disturbed themselves by the ceaseless trills, and her tears dried unnoticed on her cheeks as the darker sounds stained the melody, and the song's question became, why? She gave up, then, the slight attempt at controlling the turn the music was taking, for the joy was not in her, and she gave over to the dissonances, giving voice to her own ache.
Raw pain, then, filled the room, as surely as if the piping had given it substance. The lamp on the dresser flickered, then broke. The walls were stripped of every stuffed animal, every statuette, everything that was not part of the walls. What was rigid shattered, crescendo by crescendo. What was not rigid was torn, seams giving way, threads parting, as if every tiny molecule were suddenly possessed of the irresistible urge to get as far away from every other as possible.
And over, around, and through the destruction, she wove the killing notes, until it seemed she had drained her heart of every drop of anger, every ounce of hatred, wiped every thought of bitterness from her mind. Like spring creeping back after the last hard freeze, then, the song changed.
She never ceased to play. Small fingers gripped the pipe so tightly that its markings were imprinted upon her, and her tears seemed to be as much for the physical pain she was causing herself by holding it thus, as for the heartache she was lancing with her tune. Even as the melody deepened, sweetened, trembling forgiveness and renewal poured out note by note, the small body did not relax.
When at last she took her lips from the pipe and opened her eyes, all was as it had been before she began.