When two combustible elements are intertwined you read aloud, punctuating full stops randomly between words, the effect can be cata… clysmic I say… clysmick. The collision of molecules can cause a chain reaction that is trillions of times greater than the sum of its ignition. You read in such a staccato and random manner that it sounds like a secret morse code buried in the words.
You. Read. The. Messages. As so many. Dots and dashes. And. Secrets. Reveal.
When the… you study the page hard as though trying to ignite it with your eyes. I don’t know how we found this piano, or who the fuck would just dump something like this here. I can’t play piano and yet weirdly I’m hammering out something approaching a melodious tune. I know this is just torture for the unfortunate thing. It’s an old upright, brown wood and damp keys. The last person to ever have the privilege of dancing their fingers over those brittle teeth is probably the worst. This is a pre-execution speech of the utmost disrespect and humiliation.
…source hits the fuel then the incendary can occur. All destruction is an orgy, a love triangle between the elements of life. You look up from the book with a sigh and scrunch your nose as though the very words on the page are pungent. When ignition occurs, all the atoms within will dance themselves into… obliteration… yeah, obliteration. The end will finally come when all the main components are exhausted. When the three points of the triangle are disintergrated, the energy will disa… dissipate? …dissappear. It will become a nothing, a lifeless vacuum charred of all life and only pumped by the feeble life support of gravity.
Plinky plonky, I’m trying to wank a Chopin out of my talentless fingers. The keys and the strings sound like a protest, from sadness to anger, from despair to there. On the bitter wasteland, the earth is as hard as marble and sculpted into the most terrible, abnormal forms. Everywhere we tread, we crease our ankles against another billious, flossy form, another Merrick Mound of hard and hollow crust. There’s nothing around us but grey – no sunsets, no trees and no birds. I don’t have many teeth left so I run my tongue along the crap rollercoaster of my gums. Plinky plonky. Lar de dar.
You drop the book and I shout at you and tell you to watch the fucking book. I hammer my fingers down on the keys and make a note that could wake the dead. You look down at it with sarcasm and snatch the lighter fuel. You begin to douse the wood. I can feel myself losing the keys as the stench burns my nostrils. I’m not hitting anything anymore. Every note is instantly taken away by the wind, as though being preserved in desperation. Bottle this fuckers, I say, and bang down so hard I can feel my knuckles straining to dislocate. The stems of my fingers all the way to my wrist are hot. My elbow tingles.
I look up and see a name carved into the wood. And as you approach with the matchstick, flared and excited in the wind, I tackle you down to the hard ground and sharp stones pierce your thigh. It takes a furious argument, two hours later, before you finally storm away unsatisfied and unfulfilled.
I turn to the piano, shivering in the cold, and I sit down. Lighter fuel is dripping down onto the keys and I can feel it soak into my fingers. I have dust in my eye but I dare not scratch or wipe it away. I try and play something soft, but the keys rebel against me. It’s all so much noise, so discordant and so unnatural. I thought I had been forgiven but I see that some actions cannot be undone.
I mutter apologies and my eyes prick with tears. When I walk away, I know it will be for good. The book is missing. I know she has more lighter fluid and more matches. I know the piano will be gone by morning.