𝐏𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐤𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞

Piano Hands and Melissa Garth's Birthday Party|| 10.

Black and white. The colors glared at Alaska, slighting her silently with beady eyes and a voracious appetite for her failure. The shades were soldiers in a line, alternating with revolvers all pointed at Alaska with unresolved bitterness. She stared down, eyes trailing up and down the slick keys who glowered back at her tauntingly.

The piano became a personification of every disappointment Alaska had grown to be. Her life was reflected on the keyboard, it was a sequence of each misstep she'd taken. The ivory keys dawned an abstract insight into the passion Alaska had, which was so grand it ravaged her other thoughts. This sentiment manifested as roots growing through the keys, promising Alaska a rich future. The ebony ones depicted the gradual decline of her fervent musical escapades. Listless charcoal outlines of a withered flower to showcase an atrophying formerly gifted kid.

All the years she had poured into a forsaken penchant were worth less than a dime.

Alaska's fingers stretched towards the piano at a sedated pace, while her foot traveled to it's pedal. The stationary pedal she placed the tip of her boot on could have been a metaphor for Alaska never getting far. The tiles zapped her fingertips cooly, running a jet of cold up her arm. She traced circles across the elder instrument, but didn't allow it to groan under her hands.

The school's piano was old, if Alaska had to guess it most likely predated the ban of ivory use in keys. The base was sturdy, yet wore splatters of paint on it's head like a toupee. It reeked of moist wood and dust slipped between the cracks of the keys. The graffiti was apropos to the art room the old piece dwelled in.

There were also little carvings lacerated the oak, wounding it with what seemed like a pencil knife.

Alaska's internal chord was struck with a swift blow of shame and regret. It was the type of unsettled that festered under your nails, or in the back of your mind, just out of reach to scrounge away. It had created calluses on her heart by now, but the built up layer of protection diminished when she was face to face with her failures.

She puffed out her cheeks before exhaling. She gave her stare permission to travel, and they took it in stride. They flitted from the portraits clipped to the walls, eased with the same grace as a butterfly's wings. Watercolor and acrylics hung all around, covering every inch of the walls aside from the thin cracks of pale yellow paint Alaska could see in between the paintings.

Her voice could have echoed on loop, unheard by anyone outside the abandoned room. It was her lunch period, but alas her stomach was twisted by unwelcome anxiety as opposed to hunger.

A smirk twitched over her lips when she noticed one of the paintings crested by the name Thatcher Rhodes. His name lived on the corner of a painted woman, who's shoulders were draped in a silk gown stained a myriad of watercolors. The pales hues blended on her face in abstracts bursts of beige, pink and orange. While the colors elected were beautiful enough, what caught Alaska's attention was her expression.

The woman Thatcher had formed with his hands wore a smile on her plump lips, but the depth lurking in her eyes was hauntingly sorrowful. Tragedy lived in the margins of her sleepy gaze and complacent grin.

"Hey, Alaska," Birdie's steps dragged into the art room as her knuckles rasped on the hollow door. "What are you doing in here?" She peered at Alaska curiously and inched a little closer.

Alaska swept her curtain of dark hair to the side in order to regard Birdie with a thin smile. Her fingers danced in a small wave, then beckoned Birdie over. "I'm avoiding the lunch rush," she joked.

"Oh, well scoot over and I'll avoid it with you!" Birdie flicked a limp wrist at Alaska until she moved over to allow Birdie a place to sit on the piano bench. Alaska tilted her head at Birdie's backpack that had been tossed lazily to the side. The base was pale blue, the handle braided yarns in an assortment of colors, and sewn into it were little bumblebees.