The Pianist

On the bench sat an old man, playing a piano, a glass of red wine at by his right hand, an empty, dirty plate next to it. His bony fingers moved effortlessly from key to key, making the instrument moan and hum with each hammer stroke. He paused a moment, and wrapped his hand around glass and took a sip. He knew his supplies were getting low, but no matter, he was old. He resumed play of the piano. His back faced rows of thousands of vacant seats, nostalgia was why he had chosen this destination. He remembered the years when one would find it impossible to discover an empty seat in this theatre. Royalty, the aristocracy from all across the country would convene in this theatre, and shuffle into the red velvet lined seats to hear him make his instrument sing. He could make it sing songs of joy, of love, and of sorrow that moved any that had the pleasure of hearing them, but those days died with all those who were moved and those who were not. He moved into one of his favorite pieces, her favorite pieces. The piano moaned out its love song as the memories flooded back into the old man’s brain. Memories of how they had met, her just an urchin begging the pianist for pennies, how he had taken her in his arms and given her the life of a princess. He remembered those long days in the park, just the two of them, her flowing blonde hair and her vibrant hazel eyes. He remembered all their nights together, and their wedding and everything, in that song; it was all he had left of her now. His song came to an end, and a tear filled his aged eye as he finished his glass and poured himself a second, noticing that the bottle had become dry afterwards. He returned to playing and in his mind he attempted to convince himself that he did not need any other human, or living being with him, but all he needed to survive was his beloved piano. Once or twice he had made himself believe this, but never for long, his thoughts always returned to her. Her smiling face looking down at him from somewhere in the stands, her eyes most of the time filled with tears. He always had an uncanny way of finding her face in even the most packed crowds, when people still came to hear this old man, years ago. His fingers had just began to move once more across the keys, when behind him, an unmistakable sound was heard, the thud of feet on his stage. Slowly he looked behind him and beheld the figure of a man walking towards him, but a man this was not. His face was covered by a black hood, and a black gown shrouded the rest of him. He was hunched over and supported himself with a scythe. The old man took one long look at him, than faced his piano once more, he knew this day would come.
“Tried to hide I see?” The hooded man’s voice, haggard and weary “tried to hide despite that I’ve consumed your country.” He let out a resounding fit of coughs that echoed in the empty theatre.
The old man took no further notice of him, but rather, played piano, a mournful piece. He only stopped when the figure rested it’s skeletal fingers on his shoulder. It bent low and whispered in his ear “it’s time.” It’s breath smelled of decay. The old man looked at it and said “leave me here, with my piano.” The figure leaned into his ear once more “very well” it said, and planted a kiss on the man’s cheek. The man collapsed, his head fell into the keys and a horrid crash filled the vacant theatre, blood from his mouth stained the white of the piano. The figure sauntered to the now deceased’s glass of wine and helped himself. No use to him now is it? Thought the figure, and sauntered its way back out of the theatre.