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...Her eyes are frozen wide and dull and her hands hang at her sides. She seems to struggle to speak; her lips move but no words form. She swishes her head sideways, heavy black hair shivering, the whites of her eyes showing like a spooked horse, and the next moment she is gone.
“Shit. Shit shit shit.” Joe hisses, turning away and wiping his mouth. He rubs his hands over his front pants pockets as he paces, the corners of his mouth turned down. Bas feels stuck to the spot, and he watches Joe apprehensively as he circles the room. Joe bends down and picks up the poem, then stands still, reading. He twists the paper a bit, then whirls towards Bas and steps close without looking at him. Bas reaches out a hand to calm him, but at the touch, he starts and drops the paper. He looks up at Bas. “Bas. Bastian, Bas this isn’t, I don’t...” Joe steps away again, turns toward the door, seems to hesitate, and then dashes out of the room. Bas hears loud footsteps thump down the stairs, and a moment later, the sound of the front door as it is quickly opened and pulled shut. Then the old house is silent once more.
At the familiar sound of silence, Bas finds that he is not stuck to the floor after all. He stands at his doorway, his hands braced on either side of him, panting silently. He can’t seem to get any breath into his lungs; he opens his mouth wide with the effort. His blood races warm but the empty air rests chill against his skin. He lets his hands fall and breathes. It’s done. He doesn’t understand what the thought means, but it comes with a strange relief. He waits until he feels his equilibrium somewhat restored. Finally, then, he begins to slowly walk down the dusky hallway, bare feet cautious on the cold floor. “Rua?” he calls softy. Silence is the only answer, as he knew it would be. He peers into rooms as he passes them, and each one is empty in gathering twilight. At the top of the stairway he pauses, looking down into the vague dimness. Then he pads down the stairs, fingers of his right hand skimming the rail. At the foot of the stairs, he hears a soft musical plink. A piano. Rua is in the “parlor”- a dusty old room that’s rarely opened. From the opening to the room, he can see Rua veiled in shadows in a far corner, sitting small at a bench in front of the old black piano. She looks so beautiful, and he wants to say, “Mom.” He steps inside and mouths the word, but of course he doesn’t speak it.
Bas moves to stand beside her left shoulder. Rua doesn’t look up, just keeps staring down at the piano keys, softy glowing white in the dark. Her fingers ghost over keys, playing without pressing down. Bas watches her thin hands flutter pale over the keys. He imagines the bones like birds’- brittle, delicate, hollow.
Her voice startles him: “The piano is so out of tune. Why did I let the piano get out of tune?” Rua says so softly, an expelled breath, and Bas is not sure if she knows he is there...
“Shit. Shit shit shit.” Joe hisses, turning away and wiping his mouth. He rubs his hands over his front pants pockets as he paces, the corners of his mouth turned down. Bas feels stuck to the spot, and he watches Joe apprehensively as he circles the room. Joe bends down and picks up the poem, then stands still, reading. He twists the paper a bit, then whirls towards Bas and steps close without looking at him. Bas reaches out a hand to calm him, but at the touch, he starts and drops the paper. He looks up at Bas. “Bas. Bastian, Bas this isn’t, I don’t...” Joe steps away again, turns toward the door, seems to hesitate, and then dashes out of the room. Bas hears loud footsteps thump down the stairs, and a moment later, the sound of the front door as it is quickly opened and pulled shut. Then the old house is silent once more.
At the familiar sound of silence, Bas finds that he is not stuck to the floor after all. He stands at his doorway, his hands braced on either side of him, panting silently. He can’t seem to get any breath into his lungs; he opens his mouth wide with the effort. His blood races warm but the empty air rests chill against his skin. He lets his hands fall and breathes. It’s done. He doesn’t understand what the thought means, but it comes with a strange relief. He waits until he feels his equilibrium somewhat restored. Finally, then, he begins to slowly walk down the dusky hallway, bare feet cautious on the cold floor. “Rua?” he calls softy. Silence is the only answer, as he knew it would be. He peers into rooms as he passes them, and each one is empty in gathering twilight. At the top of the stairway he pauses, looking down into the vague dimness. Then he pads down the stairs, fingers of his right hand skimming the rail. At the foot of the stairs, he hears a soft musical plink. A piano. Rua is in the “parlor”- a dusty old room that’s rarely opened. From the opening to the room, he can see Rua veiled in shadows in a far corner, sitting small at a bench in front of the old black piano. She looks so beautiful, and he wants to say, “Mom.” He steps inside and mouths the word, but of course he doesn’t speak it.
Bas moves to stand beside her left shoulder. Rua doesn’t look up, just keeps staring down at the piano keys, softy glowing white in the dark. Her fingers ghost over keys, playing without pressing down. Bas watches her thin hands flutter pale over the keys. He imagines the bones like birds’- brittle, delicate, hollow.
Her voice startles him: “The piano is so out of tune. Why did I let the piano get out of tune?” Rua says so softly, an expelled breath, and Bas is not sure if she knows he is there...
