Song Dust

Long, slender fingers dance across black and white keys. Silvery, shuddering notes rise into the air, only to shatter, moon dust crumbling to the floor.
Why won’t the music come? It has always come.
Rise. Shatter. Fall.
Why can’t you be who you are?
The dance becomes more urgent, desperate. The fingers stiffen, the keys pressed harder and harder.
Rise. Shatter. Fall.
Why do you always have to hide?
The dance slows. Eyes squeeze tightly shut. The keys tremble, the music still refuses to come. To soothe away hurts and anger and hate, as it always has, as it still should.
Please please please.
Rise. Shatter. Fall.
Coward! Coward! Coward!
The dance stops. The fingers lay unmoving, limp. Unwanted tears fall, leaving the barest trace on keys that have felt every emotion, then disappear. Gone.
Rise. Shatter. Fall.
The last of the song dust settles on the ground.
Coward!
“Shut up.”
His voice is quiet, shaking. He reaches for the piano lid to pull it down. To shut away the one thing he has always held secret, close to his heart. Because he never wanted anyone to see, see beyond the loud, fake, shallow façade that was his disguise.
You’re just scared.
“Shut up.”
You’re scared of them. You’re scared of yourself.
“Shut up.”
You’re scared you’ll lose control. Control over who you are to others, who you are to yourself.
“Shut up!”
The piano lid slams down. The moon dust dissipates. What has always been a sanctuary becomes a hell.
“I’m not scared. I’m not scared.”
The words are lost in this empty, silent room.
“I haven’t lost control.”
No answer.
He gets up, roughly shoving the seat away, stalking to the door. Slender fingers grasp the knob, pulling it open.
“I’m not a control freak.”
And then he is gone, and his harsh words echo softly in the now-melancholy room.
Rise. Shatter. Fall.