The piano is not firewood yet,
They try to remember,
But still, they forget.

I sat there, delicately playing my piano with sheer elegance. My posture was perfect, my fingers were swiftly grazing the ivory and ebony keys. My mother sat in the back of the room, her hazed ocean-blue eyes teary. The firelight coming from the furnace highlighted her sandy-blonde hair and pale skin.

As I continued my melody, I started to slip my fingers across the wrong places out of anxiety. I wanted to soothe and impress my mother. I am only 15. I plan on getting a degree in music and becoming a composer and pianist. I want to make my mother proud.

"Shyloh, that was beautiful." My mother rasped in her ragged, yet strong voice as I concluded my piece. I closed my eyes and barely caught my sigh of relief. "You're very talented."

I smiled and stood from my piano stool, closing my sheet music." Thank you, Mother. I'm glad you liked it." I put my sheet music neatly in the seat as she stood from her's.

"I'm going to prepare dinner," she told me. She walked out of the room, and walked down the staircase. I looked over at the fireplace which was still lit, and my heart felt as if I were being stabbed in the chest. She forgot to put out the fire.

My mother had become older, quicker than I had wanted. She suffered from amnesia, but it hadn't gone away. I put out the fire and sat in the chair my mother had just sat in. My father was gone, off, having an affair with another, younger woman. Her perfume intoxicated the mansion once my father came home from "work".

My father was cruel. He dared break Mother's heart like the wine glasses he threw at the walls when they argued. He made me sick. But I didn't hate him.

Mother was rich because she inherited my grandfather's money. Unlike any greedy son or daughter, she bought a house, a car, and yes, my piano.She gave half of the rest to charity. We didn't have much left, because Mother had to take medications, and they were costly.

Life was good, but I wasn't happy. I worry for my mother everyday when I wake up, to every night when I rest my head. In between then, I couldn't concentrate. My tutor I have, since I am home-schooled, always notices my stress.

I take no medication for such worries, such anxiety, because my only stress-reliever is my piano. My piano is the bright side of my life. So what I am going to do is sit down and play my music. So I sat down on my piano chair and played.

I woke up to my room, the dawn light filtering through the white drapes on my window. It was Saturday, which meant Mother was cleaning. I got out of bed, and neatly smoothed the silk sheets and placed the pillows nicely.

I went into the bathroom, and sat down in front of my wardrobe mirror. I grinned at how I looked like my mother. My facial features were pretty, but like my mother's. My eyes were gray-blue, like Mother's. But I grimaced at my hair. It was red, and though I loved my velvety strands of hair, my father had red hair.

I combed my fire-like hair and tied it into a bun. I made myself up, my porcelain skin smooth, my eyes dark and highlighted right, my lips red. I wasn't going anywhere fancy, but Mother said it was nice to feel pretty when you're around the house.

I got dressed and walked downstairs, off the top floor, past the second, and finally the bottom floor. Mother's room was on the bottom floor, and so was Father's. They didn't share the same room, because Father refused. It made me sad.

Mother was asleep. It was unusual, so I crept into her room and felt her forehead. She had a slight fever. I frowned. She opened her eyes and narrowed them. "Get out!" She yelled. I backed up, surprised. What had happened? Did I anger her by going into her room?

She grabbed a glass half-full of water and threw it. I held my hands up and backed away, drawing her blinds and leaving her to rest. I entered the main living room and sat on the white leather couch. It was suppose to feel like a luxury by sitting on such fine furniture. But I didn't smile from the experience. I cried.

I tried to stay quiet. I didn't want her to yell again. But the tears flowed. I held my hands to my eyes, and my hands were covered in tears. I breathed a shakey sigh. "I might as well try cleaning."

I got up and dusted the furniture, swept, mopped, and stopped in front of the Grandfather Clock in the hallway. Mother told me not to clean this clock. It was an antique. So I didn't. It still worked.

I went to the lounge, where my piano was, on the second floor. I got my sheet music out of the seat and set it on the music rest. I played for a while and heard the doorbell and stopped abruptly. I got up and rushed down the steps to the door.

I opened it and my father staggered in, drunk.

My anger got the most of me, and I slapped the lipstick smudged on his cheek.

After I slapped my father, I had run to my bedroom and sobbed, laying on my bed. By now, my mother had gotten up because of the commotion. The rest of the night, I couldn't fall asleep, because the yelling and retorts of my parents drowned out my dreams.

Eventually, I heard footsteps stomping up the staircase. My mother's voice screamed, "Don't you dare!" I ran outside of my room, the tile underfoot having a new type of cold effect on my bare feet. I looked over the banister.

My father was going towards the lounge, not even walking in a straight line. He entered the lounge and I ran down the stairs. I followed him inside the room with my music and piano. He opened the piano stool and took out my sheets. Years and years of work and practice went away as he ripped my music.

He stumbled to the furnace and threw it in the fireplace with the logs of oak and lit the flames. I kept crying, and he just laughed. "You don't need those sour chords anyway. You don't have a chance in music. We needed firewood anyway."

With that, he fumbled down the steps, got a suitcase, and left the house. I felt broken inside. I sat on my piano seat, and rested my head on the keys. The piano seemed to groan with me in my cries of dismay.

-----The Next Morning-----

I stayed in bed the next morning. I didn't bother to clean up the makeup from my face the night before, so I had just ruined my white pillow. Just another thing to fix in my life.

But I quickly got up and went to the lounge and opened my piano seat for the sheet music, hoping to play something cheery. It was empty. Just like how I felt. I slammed the piano seat shut, sat down, and screamed like it didn't matter, slamming the keys. "NO!"

I rose from my cold, sleek sheets. I walked over to my window, watching the snow drift downwards. The lawn in front of the house was white, and the roads were icey.

Yesterday, I had turned 19. It had taken a long while to get my drivers' license. But I had finally gotten it, and my mother bought me a blue Toyota Corolla. Mother didn't mind me having a rather expensive car,  just so I didn't wreck it.

I had applied for many universities, and had gotten many replies, but no acceptances. I just had to be patient. I was a patient young woman, especially since it took so long to write and learn music.

I wrote music and poems a lot. I barely had any friends, a social life, so I just entrusted my music and my mother to keep me company. Father hadn't left, but he hated Mother. I hated him.

I had taken singing into account, and my tutor said I had a beautiful voice. I was a soprano, but I could sing as low as tenor. Mother had hired a singing instructor for me. He was in his early twenties, fresh out of college.

I had taken him into my liking, and Mother noticed. She told me to go for it. He was 22, and I was 19, so she encouraged me to talk to him outside of singing lessons. I needed a masculine figure to love me, considering I had only a sliver of fatherly love.

So this morning, I got up. I went to my wardrobe, and instead of a blouse and skirt, I chose a knee-length, pale blue, satin dress with no sleeves and a black, lace belt to go around it. I wore black flats, and was a little more cautious with my makeup and hair.

I walked down the stairs and my mother sat there on the couch, awaiting my arrival. She grinned mischievously. She knew what I was up to.

"Why, don't you look elegant this morning?" She commented, eyebrow raised.

I blushed, and said, "I guess I'm trying to get Mr. Reed's-"

"He told you to call him Axel, sweetie. I think today, that would be a smart decision. After all, he is fond of you, too, Shyloh." She smiled. "You look absolutely striking."

The doorbell sounded. I grinned at Mother and rushed to the door. I took a deep breath. I cleared my throat and opened the door, my hand visibly shaking. "Hello, Mr. Reed. Come in, come in." I held the door for him after greeting him.

Axel seemed slightly in awe at my appearance. I stifled a giggle, shut the door behind him, and followed him into the living room so he could say hello to my Mother. She smiled. "Hello, Mr. Reed." He nodded in greeting.

Mother left us to practice singing, and I started with my scales, starting with a high C and stopping an octave down. He nodded in approval. "But remember to take a breath in your stomach, not with your shoulders." He seemed to hesitate before holding his hand where my diaphragm is, on my stomach. "Your diaphragm pushes out the air."

I conceal my blushing with my arm as I scratch the back of my hand. "I see," I responded, slightly embarrassed. "Maybe it would help me to use my piano for accompanyment to my scales."

"Oh, I didn't think of that. Sure, that would help." He nodded.

"To the lounge!" I joked. He chuckled. As I arrived to my grand piano, I slid the piano seat out for him to sit on. Axel just looked at me, as if he were waiting for me to play the piano.

"I..er..." He stammered. "I can't play the piano." I looked at him in astonishment. Usually music teachers or choir conducters were required to play the instrument. "I know, strange, right? They judged me in college for not knowing how."

A thought struck me: I could teach him. "I-I know how. Maybe I could teach you?"

"Oh, I couldn't ask you to-"

I stopped him and sat down in front of my piano. I began to play after getting my sheet music. I played Für Elise, by Beethoven. I didn't miss a single note as my hands glided across the ivories. I then flipped the pages to songs that I had written, some quick and happy, some full of gloom, and quiet. It felt like hours.

Finally, I concluded my pieces, and he looked at me. "Alright."

He sat down beside me and I tensed at our closeness. I taught him all the keys, C, E, D, F, G, A, B. All the sharps and flats. I taught him all the chords and such, and the scales.

I told him some books to use for help, some songs to listen to. Symphonies and sonatas. My personal favorite was Moonlight Sonata which was by Beethoven. I told him biographies and autobiographies of pianists to read.

He nodded through everything I said, and I felt so...intelligent. I was the teacher this time, and he was my student, my pupil. He spoke up. "So, Shyloh," he began. I looked at him. "Why don't you join me for coffee, or tea, tomorrow? Say, 3 o'clock?"

"Sure!" I nodded.

"Okay."

As Axel drove me to the café downtown, he turned up the radio. "What do you like listening to?" He asked politely, glancing over to me with those green eyes... They were so perfect.

"Oh-, classic stuff, y'know?" I said. He turned the radio station until he found a song. I grinned as he blasted "Moon River" by Audrey Hepburn. This was the perfect song. We both sang along.

"Moon river,
Wider than a mile,
I'm crossing you in style,
Someday..."

Our voices were like magic together. He glanced at me, grinning wt the harmony. I grinned back, but turned to the window. That was my parents' song. I remember, because I learned to play it on their anniversary. Father hates the song, and Mother can't remember the words.

I frowned. A pain hit my stomach, twisting it. I felt like curling up in my bed and dying. I didn't want to go in public. I hated anything that reminded me of my father, even his favorite color, or a suit that looked like the one he wore to "work".



We arrived at the cafe, and I smoothed out my grey dress, rushing my fingers through my hair. I opened the door of the car sfter unbuckling my seatbelt. I got out.

We entered the café and sat down at a table for two. We told the waitress what we wanted: An iced tea for him and a mocha for me. There was something familiar about the waitress, but I didn't say anything.

As I looked around the diner/restaurant, I felt eyes on me and kept from blushing. Every now and then, I'd feel Axel staring at me. Finally, I turned to him, motioning outside. "It's getting really cloudy, hm?" I tried.

He nodded.

The waitress came over with our beverages and glanced at me, a disgusted look plastered on her face. She was actually quite beautiful. Long, wavy brown hair and chocolate brown eyes. Those red lips and pretty face. I grabbed the bowl containing creamer, and dropped it at a smell.

A...a stinch.

As the bowl shattered, cutting my palm, I realized that vile scent surrounding that...witch. The perfume that surrounded the house when my father came home drunk every night. My father had been with this woman.

"Ugh," she hissed through her perfect teeth as she picked the shards up from the table and ground. Axel looked at me, shocked. He grabbed a napkin and held it to my bleeding hand.

As the waitress walked off, he leaned towards me. "What was that all about?"

"That tramp is the demon that my father was going out with when he was cheating on my mother," I responded angrily, hands shaking in pure fury, my hand still soaked in blood, Axel's hand grasped firmly but carefully around it.

As we finished drinking our coffee and tea, I left quickly with Axel, leaving no tip. I was still flustered and radiating with rage. Axel glanced at me, concerned.

He finally spoke up. "What movies have you been wanting to see?" He asked as he sat in the car. I looked at him as he started his car, putting the key in the ignition and shifting out of park.

"None in the theaters." I responded nonchalantly, talking like this so he wouldn't pay for tickets and popcorn and candy and soda at the movies. But he still had to beat around the bush, find some loophole, thay brute. He grinned.

"So...something on DVD." He snickered. I glared at him, though not holding anything against him. I couldn't be mad at him. He laughed. "What? We can go to a movie store or a Redbox. I can pick up some candy or pizza or something," he persuaded. There was along pause.

"Well, I'm in your car. Unless I tuck and roll, I believe I'm doomed." I sighed, acting disappointed. I was screaming and running around like a maniac inside.

After a long, silent drive, he pulled up to the store. He went to get out of his car and I grabbed his arm. He looked at me. "Yep?" Those eyes. I flinched at his gaze.

"Is this a date?" I stammered(Oh lawd sorry but *pukes*). His face went beet red and so did mine.

"Well, ah..." he coughed. "I-Is it..? What d'you think?" His eyes were as wide as two saucers, and he looked terrified and happy at the same time. There was another long pause when I didn't respond. "Y'know what?" He asked, breaking the silence. I looked at him. "It is." He pecked my cheek with his lips and ran in the store, leaving me stunned.

----

He came out of the store after what seemed like forever. He opened the door and greeted me as if nothing happened. He had a box of popcorn in one hand and Breakfast at Tiffany's in the other. "You said you liked the song. You better like the movie, too."

We drove back to the house and I unlocked my door. Mother was nowhere to be seen, probably in bed. It was 8:30 p.m. after we ran around town for about two hours after getting the movie and going to the café. She wouldn't mind. I didn't have a curfew.

I went to the kitchen with the popcorn, got a bowl, and popped that stuff! Axel had put the DVD in the VCR and we were ready to go.  After watching Audrey Hepburn in her best movie, I was rather tired.

"I guess I'm gonna be on my way." Axel said.

"Alright." I responded,  seeing him to the door. It was raining. He giggled like a child at the rain.

He went to his car and got in. Go for it. I ran out the door and knocked his car window. He rolled it down. "Did you forget something?" I said. He felt his pockets.

"No-" He said, puzzled, and was cut off as our lips met.