THEN EVERYTHING BURNT-
The tragic notes echoed within a person’s head – fading and fading until a new tune was played in a dark minor key. Someone must have her hands finely sculpted by the divine heavens for the way the way the fingers danced on top of the ivories of black and white was so delicate, as if she was caressing something fragile. It was a beautiful cry of the piano. No, it was her beautiful cries.
However, teardrops did not luster while they flowed down her cheeks for there was no light. She was a prisoner of the dark- vowed to play this tragic tune forever. The chords of agony whispered an eerie in repetition. First it was minute, and then grew louder, and louder – the timeless pain of the piano haunted him. Louder and louder – until he shrieked to get out from the inescapable dream.
HE HAD BARELY THE IDEA of why he screamed despite continuously waking up in the middle of the night, insomniac, because of a ghoulish music he had never heard consciously. But there was something that kept him from cursing the bittersweet sensation of his nightmare. Inside this darkness of his dream he always sought the beauty of those delicate fingers, he always expected the breathless delight of the sight of her face. Inside the darkness he felt like he had seen the figure, he felt like he had the nocturnal eyesight to remember every exact detail of her entire being.
He stood up and went outside the labyrinth of his room to the haven and paradise of his work space- a world full of pastels and paints and canvasses, an asylum of strokes of brushes and shades of charcoals. He lit up the candles that poised at the ceiling through a hanging candle-holder to irradiate the room from this vast darkness. An empty space of vast white blankness postured in front of him. He grabbed a pencil and his mind remembered the minor keys, his ears received each note of cries of the caged goddess. His hands were as delicate as hers, only his was sculpted by the divine heavens to sketch and paint.
He closed his eyes and let the dream drift once more inside his unconscious thoughts. The minor keys started to sing once again. She was continually playing the tragedy of the caged divinity as her teardrops slid through her cheeks. Little by little, the song started to grow loud. The tragedy played fast- like a deer chased by the lion out of the savannas. Her fingers never slipped. She never failed to enter the rhythmic pattern. The dynamics was perfectly executed although as she played was a grief- a helpless depression that she will never had the glimpse of the light ever again.
But the darkness started to fade and although the dark was still unreasonable, she could see how her fingers danced on top of the ivory keys and she was astounded. She could feel a slight sensational itch at her arms, as if something furry, like a brush was slipping through her body.
The music continued its bellow yet she was starting to be aware that her hair lied at her bare back. The big golden curls were like the rippling ocean as the sun was starting to sleep. The notes repeatedly created the echoes within his head and she felt how the brush tingles her naked body- an hourglass made of white porcelain shone along the little beams of light.
He made the most subtle strokes on every detail. It was as if she was really alive. Every line of her eyebrows was cleanly trimmed. Each of the strokes of her lashes was curled with fashion. Even the number of the freckled imperfection on her cheeks was counted, seven. Her beauty, however, was not of the earth- it was celestial.
His brush of fine fur designed her collarbones, a gentle angle of femininity. Some of her hair hid the carnation nipples from her well-round breasts. Her eyes of silver reflected how her fingers danced on every key of the piano. Her lips of scarlet red finally showed the perfect sadness she was feeling. Her teardrop then, glimmered on the full light.
He woke up, not because of the splatter of red paint on his chest, but because of the melted wax that dropped from the candles, looking at him with defined awe and amazement. The sun was nearly sleeping. He slept through the entire day. Genius, he uttered to himself as his eyes fixed at the canvas.
Startled, the canvas was empty, aside from the piano inside a room that was well lighted in incandescence. No goddess was there. No beauty was left to marvel upon. She was lost, she was lost.
He thought that he was just dreaming once again when he heard the minor key. However, the tune was different, it was ecstatic. The sound was in definite fastness with excitement, not with a haunting thrill. The dynamics was not of screams but with an incontainable delight. The goddess was untamed.
He followed the mellow happiness of the tune. And within the room of the grand piano was her; a naked beauty with finely sculpted fingers for dancing above the ivory keys black and white.
She kissed him, more than that of mere thanks. Her virgin lips so soft met his with passion, with heavenly romance. He covered her with the gossamer and satin, held her hand and there they danced.
The sun died. And the incandescence of the room of the grand piano lit up. No music was needed, no tone and no rhythm was needed. The minor song had an eerie within their minds and through it their feet swayed. A music that only their ears can hear…
He felt her warmth. He felt the smoothness of the brush’s kiss on her skin. Her warmth, why is it so scorching? He felt a blister, and with a final spin of her dance she fell without consciousness. He smelled something burning, and cursed out loud as he remembered something. He carried her weight, caressing her in his delicate arms as she was a fragile piece of a song. He sprinted while she was in his arms, through the labyrinth of hallways, unto his haven of work space.
Inside the scorching heat of the room’s light he found the canvass, melting with the flame that engulfed everything. He cursed out loud; the woman on his arms dripped the melting paint that burns him, although he never cared. The minor key played inside his head with the grieving death, the tragic music echoed within his chambers. The chords of agony whispered in an eerie repetition until the fast rhythm raced along with the tears that his eyes ignited.
His lips met the warmth of her carnation lips, not of happiness, not of romance, not of thanks, but with adieu. He whispered her name and there they lied no longer.
At the burning canvass, the dynamics of the playing piano shrieked. The minor keys played over and over again like a chant. But there she did not play the piano. There he did not paint the great Elizabeth Veronica. Inside that canvas was the melting figure of a man and a woman, dancing along with the music only their heads could hear.
-THEN EVERYTHING BURNT
Res: (Painting: Piano with Rose Petals by X-xCharryBlossomx-X)