The piano was the grandest thing in the apartment. It sat open, with the sheet music spread out over the top. As grand as the piano might be, it was still old. He had bought it second-hand - someone’s father had died. The piano was not wanted, was desperately got rid of. The apartment had belonged to the dead father, too. Cedric had made a deal; it was a good deal. An opportune place to go, to get away from his family; from the chaos of this city called Harper Rock.
The wallpaper was peeling. There was mold in the corners of the ceilings. Signs of age, that Cedric didn’t think were necessarily bad. He wondered about the old man who had lived here; an old man whose children had sold all his belongings as quickly and as hastily as possible. Had they gone through everything? Had they collected things of sentimental value, or did they not care at all? Was he alone, in the last years of his life? Was his one of the bodies that Cedric and the crew had helped to clean from the streets?
The pianist felt like he was living with the old man’s spirit; keeping it company, where he did not believe the old man’s children had. They had been too preoccupied with their own lives, selfishly leaving their father to rot. He had outgrown his helpfulness. He had become a burden. But he never told them that he missed them.
At least, this was what Cedric imagined.
Just as he could tell his Alaya that he missed her, but what good would it do? Her mother refused to let him see her. For all he knew, his daughter had been told that he was dead. Cedric would not argue. It was better this way.
The music stopped, abruptly. Cedric stood from the piano; the apartment had grown dark. He had noticed, he had been so caught up in his own thoughts. His feet scuffed against the old linoleum floor. The cold crept in through the cracks; the windows were not secure, the rain tapping against the windows. There was a siren somewhere, outside. Cedric felt the weight of anxiety; there was a thriving city out there, and yet he felt so alone.
It didn’t take long for him to pull on his jacket and his beanie and leave the apartment. It was a human condition, wasn’t it? To never want to be truly alone. And yet he could not blame anyone but himself. He could not blame fate or circumstance. He was the orchestrator of his own demise. This city would be his demise.
And yet it was also a human condition to survive, even if one felt that there was nothing left to survive for. To keep on living, in the hope that something better might come along; something more than one deserves. No one knew him here. It was a chance at a new beginning, even if he missed what he had left behind.
The pianist did not own an umbrella. He pulled the collar up around his neck and crossed his arms over his chest; he tried to dodge the rain by keeping beneath the eaves of the buildings. He could still hear the music in his ears; he relished the taste of the crisp air in his lungs. He headed toward life. Toward a busier part of the city. To satisfy the craving to see just one other face. Anyone. To know that the whole world had not crumbled away; to know that he was not alone.
The wallpaper was peeling. There was mold in the corners of the ceilings. Signs of age, that Cedric didn’t think were necessarily bad. He wondered about the old man who had lived here; an old man whose children had sold all his belongings as quickly and as hastily as possible. Had they gone through everything? Had they collected things of sentimental value, or did they not care at all? Was he alone, in the last years of his life? Was his one of the bodies that Cedric and the crew had helped to clean from the streets?
The pianist felt like he was living with the old man’s spirit; keeping it company, where he did not believe the old man’s children had. They had been too preoccupied with their own lives, selfishly leaving their father to rot. He had outgrown his helpfulness. He had become a burden. But he never told them that he missed them.
At least, this was what Cedric imagined.
Just as he could tell his Alaya that he missed her, but what good would it do? Her mother refused to let him see her. For all he knew, his daughter had been told that he was dead. Cedric would not argue. It was better this way.
The music stopped, abruptly. Cedric stood from the piano; the apartment had grown dark. He had noticed, he had been so caught up in his own thoughts. His feet scuffed against the old linoleum floor. The cold crept in through the cracks; the windows were not secure, the rain tapping against the windows. There was a siren somewhere, outside. Cedric felt the weight of anxiety; there was a thriving city out there, and yet he felt so alone.
It didn’t take long for him to pull on his jacket and his beanie and leave the apartment. It was a human condition, wasn’t it? To never want to be truly alone. And yet he could not blame anyone but himself. He could not blame fate or circumstance. He was the orchestrator of his own demise. This city would be his demise.
And yet it was also a human condition to survive, even if one felt that there was nothing left to survive for. To keep on living, in the hope that something better might come along; something more than one deserves. No one knew him here. It was a chance at a new beginning, even if he missed what he had left behind.
The pianist did not own an umbrella. He pulled the collar up around his neck and crossed his arms over his chest; he tried to dodge the rain by keeping beneath the eaves of the buildings. He could still hear the music in his ears; he relished the taste of the crisp air in his lungs. He headed toward life. Toward a busier part of the city. To satisfy the craving to see just one other face. Anyone. To know that the whole world had not crumbled away; to know that he was not alone.
[Wearing]
