The Bull

An Angel’s Song

Michaela Fromme

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They say it was her who brought the rain after the drought. It followed behind as grace carried her through the crowd of people still in parts of shock and parts of awe, for the skies had made it seem as if they’d never see another drop of water fall from the heavens again. They stayed that way for a while, allowing the shimmering rain to catch hold onto their eyelashes, and they didn’t notice her walk herself through the doors of the school, as if she knew it like the inside of her childhood home, and start up the stairs to the second floor. No one noticed until the sound of rain free falling, stumbling over each other onto the pavements below, became mixed with the melody of piano keys twirling in the air.

The next few weeks passed like it had always been, except the days were now lighter and sweeter. Everyday around the same time, she’d walk herself through the doors of the school and make her way up the stairs to the music room. Not a single word would escape her lips, but it was as if novels poured out from within her every time her fingers brushed against the whites and the blacks of the piano. They say she came from the heavens, an angel, unclogging the tears of the gods as the light carried her down, but no one ever asked to confirm. Everyday when the notes made its way throughout the school, as if they were waves fresh from the ocean herself, the whole building would become lost in a single gasp, and no one would breathe until the song had ended. And then she’d leave, only to return the next day to play again, an unheard song, always different from the last.

They no longer went into the music room. Their heads bowed down as they walked past, eyes drawn by shadows. And very soon, months had gone by. No one ever brought up the angel, whom rain had followed, and her hands that mended souls by the music it could birth. No one even seemed to wonder about why she had come when she did and why she continues to do so.

One day, I counted down the minutes until her bright white hair could be seen calmly floating behind her, as she took her time up the stairs to the front doors. I left the classroom I had been looking out of and made my way throughout the halls. I turned a corner just as the ends of her white hair disappeared through the door of the music room. I slowly followed after her. As soon as my eyes had made their way to the open door, I watched as her hands, raised above her head, fingers outstretched, fell onto the keys of the piano, just as the rain had the first day she arrived. The melody struck me as a lightning rod to the heart. I felt paralyzed; paralyzed in comfort and desire. The music had come in waterfalls, pouring itself throughout my veins, sinking deeper into my bloodstream, becoming one of me. I felt the rush of my childhood warm my face such as the sun had did at recess when I was 6. I felt my mother’s hand check my temperature when I had gotten the flu at 8. I felt my father pulling me into a hug when I had fallen off my bike at 10. I felt my entire life relive itself inside of me as she played. The bright notes jumped on top of each other as if trying to be the first to kiss the moon. The others fell behind in envy—you could feel it. Soon the notes played sadness, and my childhood sun had melted into rain, cold and grey. My mother’s hand curled around the handle of a suitcase, as the memory of her leaving replaced the time she stayed. My father’s arms around my own transformed into shreds of paper, as they blew into the air reminding me of the ones he tried to drown in. My blood turned and ached from within me, as the music became darker. Her fingers played tornadoes and brushed them around the room as easily as she bore them. They pulled at my skin, welcoming me as part of the storm. Her hands created winds as she played, causing me to stumble, and as daggers they pierced the keys and jarred at my cheeks. It shocked me that something so beautiful could bring so much pain, only needing seconds. The distress her notes played washed over the borderline of my bones. And just as the death of a hurricane, they slowly soothed out, calming into nothing. The silence was my new comfort.

Her hair fell over her shoulders as she slowly turned to face me.
“I can’t hear the music,” she mouthed as a tear washed over the already stained stream on her pale cheeks.

 

 

(This is a flash fiction story.)

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