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literature
Not The Piano Man
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Literature Text
The room is not well lit. There is a musky tang in the air, almost a sour sort of smell that vaguely reminds Natasha of a rat rotting in a sewer. She smirks at the man with a clipboard, who raises an eyebrow in disdain and checks something else off on his God-forsaken form. She rolls her eyes and plays with her fingers.
A man walks in with a clean pressed uniform and carefully trimmed hair. Natasha leans forward, purposefully arching her back as her hands snapped behind her, the iron bracelets clinging and clanging in the otherwise still room. “Are you the one who is going to get me out of these?”
The man sits in front of her, but does not directly respond. “One of Lenin’s little pigs, are you?” Natasha’s voice was carefully clipped and courteous - she had heard what was happening to those who were being, shall we say, problematic. The man looks up to face her, his black eyes holding neither pity nor contempt.
“Not a pig.” The man looks back down at his forms.
“Well, a decent human being would offer me food and refreshment, ask how I was doing, and so forth before burning my music and dragging me from my home by my hair.”
The man continues to maintain the silence. Natasha slumps in her chair, blowing a stray hair in boredom. Her gaze flicks between the guard and the man, and her thoughts wander back to her piano, back to her music, and she continues composing, humming the music while she works.
“What is that you are doing?” Natasha blinks; the iceman is watching her again, with the same empty gaze.
“Working.”
“On?”
“It is a gift for Anastasia.” Both the guard and the man look at one another. “I am assuming whoever took me is not a fan.”
“You could say that.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“Perhaps.”
Natasha nods and hums her music again. No one speaks again. Only the soft music of fear and courage fills the room, not quite breaking the silence but not filling it either; the yearning song of someone prepared to go, but not quite willing does not touch the hearts of either man.
A gunshot echoes days later and Anastasia never gets to hear her masterpiece.
A man walks in with a clean pressed uniform and carefully trimmed hair. Natasha leans forward, purposefully arching her back as her hands snapped behind her, the iron bracelets clinging and clanging in the otherwise still room. “Are you the one who is going to get me out of these?”
The man sits in front of her, but does not directly respond. “One of Lenin’s little pigs, are you?” Natasha’s voice was carefully clipped and courteous - she had heard what was happening to those who were being, shall we say, problematic. The man looks up to face her, his black eyes holding neither pity nor contempt.
“Not a pig.” The man looks back down at his forms.
“Well, a decent human being would offer me food and refreshment, ask how I was doing, and so forth before burning my music and dragging me from my home by my hair.”
The man continues to maintain the silence. Natasha slumps in her chair, blowing a stray hair in boredom. Her gaze flicks between the guard and the man, and her thoughts wander back to her piano, back to her music, and she continues composing, humming the music while she works.
“What is that you are doing?” Natasha blinks; the iceman is watching her again, with the same empty gaze.
“Working.”
“On?”
“It is a gift for Anastasia.” Both the guard and the man look at one another. “I am assuming whoever took me is not a fan.”
“You could say that.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“Perhaps.”
Natasha nods and hums her music again. No one speaks again. Only the soft music of fear and courage fills the room, not quite breaking the silence but not filling it either; the yearning song of someone prepared to go, but not quite willing does not touch the hearts of either man.
A gunshot echoes days later and Anastasia never gets to hear her masterpiece.
So I got bored and on Facebook I asked people to give me writing prompts. My friend gave me the prompt "A Russian Pianist who is under examination by the revolutionists of 1917 because they are unsure of her loyalties". This is what came of that.
© 2014 - 2024 TheArtistOfWords
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