Nova Foreman
Dragon Trainers In-Training
Posts : 75
 |  Subject: Monochromatic (One-shot) Fri Aug 21, 2015 2:49 am | |
| “I’m so sorry.”
“It was clearly written off as an accident.”
“If only she had stayed home then maybe...”
“... Crushed sideways.”
Nova had risen early, not due to an alarm, but rather the sun peering through the window. As the sleep vanished from her mind it soon dawned on her that she had forgotten to draw the curtains the night before to keep out the light, thus why she had been woken up at such an ungodly hour. The clouds were sprinkled across the sky, an out-of-reach wind blowing them quickly across the blue expanse. Letting out a breath, she closed the gap between her and the window, aiming to look out of it and observe the boring view. A letter dropped perfectly onto her windowsill, though no owl followed. Huh? Nova eyed it suspiciously before slowly opening the window and reading whom it was from. Mom and dad...
Without another moment of hesitation she opened the envelope, observing the handwriting before reading the letter itself, noting how there was the occasional jagged line that indicated a trembling hand, the almost pure lack of smooth, curving lines; it was her father’s handwriting, that much was clear, but why was he writing to her? Typically it was her mother who wrote the letters, throwing in mentions of her husband for Nova to read.
Her eyes skimmed the paper over again, this time actually reading it. She had no time to let the words sink in before her entire being froze, crumpling to her knees and barely managing to hold onto the letter. A hand slowly made its way to cover her mouth as her torso bowed so that her head met the floor.
Car accident.
Took a turn in the wrong way.
Not a chance of survival.
The letter hit her and shattered her into a million pieces. Nothing. Blankness. Void. She felt absolutely nothing. Was she okay with it? Didn’t she want to feel something? Feeling meant hurt, it meant breaking further than she had already, it meant being ground into a fine powder and scattered like ashes. Tears threatened to fall, and wet the dark carpet as her eyes closed. Why did it have to be her? It could’ve been anyone else so why did it have to be her?
Some time passed and she hardly bothered to move. With a blank expression she weakly lifted the letter to view the rest of its contents, dully noting that there was promise of another letter to come in a while. A day went by and like usual no one stopped by; she was alone. The next letter came two days later, the handwriting no longer shaky, explaining how there was to be a funeral in two weeks time, how she was excused for that period, how the school was aware of the situation. It failed to explain how she was to recover, how she was supposed to live afterwards, how she was to find any motivation to even eat, let alone go anywhere or talk with anyone.
A week later she was back home, back in the house she had lived in since she had started Hogwarts, the place that contained seven years of her life and brought back the haunting realization that she’s gone. The days blurred together until suddenly she was in a room full of people she both knew and did not. Crying. Trembling voices. Her father struggled to keep his composure, probably for her sake, and Nova believed for a moment that perhaps she was lucky to not show her emotions. Standing in black clothing and viewing a too-grey slab of smooth engraved stone, Nova failed to hear anyone’s words; a pressure on her shoulder, pulling her away, turning from the grave. Everything blurred and suddenly she was back at the academy, back in her empty room, back in a place she would rather not leave again. Winter was over but she was still cold. She hardly felt the hunger her mind thought it should be feeling by now, only a strange hollowness that she would rather not feel.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe feeling is what’s wrecking me.
Maybe I just shouldn’t feel...
Nova did not make even a weak effort to leave her room, and no one bothered to stop by; it was not as if anyone knew which room she was in, let alone cared enough to check up on her. Two days passed with her not stepping a foot outside, nutrition coming from the occasional snack and a few sips of water. It was during that time that she decided to stop feeling altogether; it was easier that way, simpler and cleaner. She didn’t care about skipping classes.
At one point she considered leaving the room, perhaps to drag herself to the piano that now seemed too far away. The notion had ended in a halfhearted dismissal, her mind saying that it was not worth the trouble; she was too tired to do anything anymore. Her days were spent picking at what little food she had in her dorm room and paging through books that might as well have been blank. She let her mind drift to what life would be like with a roommate, thinking about how they would give up on talking with her and trying to do things with her by the time a month passed. She would be too nervous to try from her own end, too concerned that they would reject her, too weak to even consider speaking up.
Time passed without her knowing.
Over the next four days there were a few hours when she didn’t move from bed at all, only begrudgingly dragging herself out when the gnawing of her stomach made her feel too much. In the end, she found herself longing for something to do, her fingers itching to make what she had avoided. Why can’t I just stay in here forever?
Staying there forever meant she would be useless forever. She would not give up, she could not give up. She threw herself into the greatest thing her father had ever given her: music, for the sake of the only thing she had left in the world. The piano at the academy was in good condition, tuned well enough, and Nova had only encountered anyone there once--perhaps twice and she had simply forgotten. The first day she ventured out of her dorm room, with her mind set on playing the piano, she was unable to resist buying a meal--a proper one, not what she had had over the period of numbness--and as soon as she arrived at the music room she did not hesitate before eating. Part of her wondered why she had refrained from it for so long, but she chose to not dwell on the fact and quickly enough, not quickly at all, she moved to sit on the plain piano bench and stare at the wood covering the keys she knew were underneath.
The black and white followed the lagging movements of her fingers, slow, building, harder, harder, HARDER. There were wrong notes, there were wrong chords, but there was no stopping her.
Piano Sonata No. 14 'Moonlight' Third Movement.
Beethoven was her favorite.
Why doesn’t it feel right?
It’s too soft.
It has to be harsher.
Why is it so soft?
For a number of days she focused on that one piece; she wanted the music to move her like nothing else could, she wanted to feel it match her heartbeat. Her hands pounded on every key and she knew it did not sound right, but it contained her feelings and it conveyed every force swirling inside of her. There were parts that were supposed to be gentle, and she did her best to stay true to the score; success was only found after days of practicing, and even then the strong parts were a bit too much so. At the same time they were not enough, she could not feel them within, feel them move her heartbeat.
Days and nights passed and she did not waste time attempting to make conversation--as if anyone would even speak with her. It took her a good two weeks of exhausting work to play the piece properly, and even then it did not seem right. The notes were too insignificant, too light, too much of nothing and she had to have something. She rarely bothered to feed herself properly, subsisting on lonely meals that had no meaning, and whatever happened to be in her water-bottle at the time.
It doesn’t sound right.
I have to play until it sounds right.
I’ll keep playing forever.
From mid-March until late April, everything had been numb, and it still was. Nova needed to recover, but made no effort towards it aside from playing. With summer coming on, and school nearing its end, it was doubtful she would be able to handle going home again. There were hardly any alternatives and her father probably expected, wanted her to return so they could comfort each other, but facing a house decorated with her mother’s things, her mother’s room, all of those memories. Nova would rather hide out on the beach for the summer. For the time being, she played. May had almost arrived, bringing less-than-pleasant weather, though she was stuck inside too often to truly notice. The song was true to the score. It failed to fill the numbness.
Does anyone care?
Maybe I can just disappear...
I’ll vanish into the background. |
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