Read Online Silent Song (Ghostly Rhapsody) by Ron C. Nieto - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ron C. Nieto
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he’d taken to school on the first day.
The room felt almost… Spartan.
I turned to him, ready to face his knowing smile once more and to ask him why his room didn’t feel his at all, but the words caught in my throat. He was waiting, looking at me in silence from under too-long bangs. When he saw that my attention was back with him, he started playing.
I’d thought he’d go for the Lady Windermere's fan theme. After all, it was the one thing we had in common and what had brought me into his house, as far from my element as a fish out of the bowl. Instead, the melody that he started picking was slower, darker. It wasn’t made of the shadows where evil lurks, though. It was the dark of closed eyes, unlit rooms. Intimate kind of dark.
I hugged myself, almost uncomfortable.
This song isn’t meant for me. How could it be? It’s so… loving.
But the other melodies, the ones I had listened to while crouched outside, hadn’t been for me, either, and that hadn’t stopped me from listening. I held onto that thrilling feeling of wrongness surrounded by perfection and just… listened.
I hadn’t realized it sooner—no one with a fashion sense would realize it—but Keith was beautiful, in an unearthly, unconventional kind of way. It was all in the music, of course, in the slow, long notes that stretched like a lament of hope and then built up and up, until the urge of breaking the progression would burn me.
Still, while he played for me, dusk quickly enveloped the outside world and I forgot that his magnetism was a mirage. The last rays of light fell on his bent head, the silver streaks in his hair glowing like the halo of a forgotten angel, and his fingers moved in a dance all their own.
It was so open, so genuine, that for just a moment, the little things stopped mattering. Little things like him being on the short side or being so pale and skinny he looked sickly. Like the knowledge that the first time some guy with black-lacquered nails put a foot inside my house, my dad would have a heart attack.
I relaxed, and even though Keith wasn’t looking at me, I saw his lips curl in a small, happy smile, as he kept playing for me in this little bubble, away from the world at large. Music was his life, he’d said. His soul. And right there and right then he showed me every recess of his innermost self and I marveled at his gift.
After a moment, just when it felt like it was impossible to hold on to the melody any longer, in that perfect instant where everything stood balanced on the edge, he broke the tension and let his notes fall into despair, spiraling down and picking up their pace the longer they fell.
Night also fell on us, following his tempo to the point where I couldn’t tell who was leading whom. Some notes vibrated in spite of the speed at which he played, but he cut most of them short, drowning them before they had a chance to be born, and I saw him furrowing his brow, concentrating… composing as he played, I realized with a start.
The guy was a real genius. And the piece he was producing was so complex and rich it could have replaced the Lady Windermere theme.
I frowned as soon as the thought entered my mind.
No, it’s too different.
The style might have been similar, as if it could fit equally well in any Season party, but the message couldn’t be further from the one the play sought to convey. This time, it was a tale of innocence, of passion for life, of wonder… and then the feeling swelled and turned into love and a different kind of passion that was too pure, too innocent. It was unsustainable, bound to burn like the moth who becomes fascinated with the flame, any moment—
A horrible screeching sound made me jump and interrupted the song. Keith looked up, confusion written all over his face, and he had to blink twice before his gaze focused on the stupid cat that had cut him short.
Sparrow had stood on the table, back arched, all hackles raised, green eyes intent on Keith. When the
The room felt almost… Spartan.
I turned to him, ready to face his knowing smile once more and to ask him why his room didn’t feel his at all, but the words caught in my throat. He was waiting, looking at me in silence from under too-long bangs. When he saw that my attention was back with him, he started playing.
I’d thought he’d go for the Lady Windermere's fan theme. After all, it was the one thing we had in common and what had brought me into his house, as far from my element as a fish out of the bowl. Instead, the melody that he started picking was slower, darker. It wasn’t made of the shadows where evil lurks, though. It was the dark of closed eyes, unlit rooms. Intimate kind of dark.
I hugged myself, almost uncomfortable.
This song isn’t meant for me. How could it be? It’s so… loving.
But the other melodies, the ones I had listened to while crouched outside, hadn’t been for me, either, and that hadn’t stopped me from listening. I held onto that thrilling feeling of wrongness surrounded by perfection and just… listened.
I hadn’t realized it sooner—no one with a fashion sense would realize it—but Keith was beautiful, in an unearthly, unconventional kind of way. It was all in the music, of course, in the slow, long notes that stretched like a lament of hope and then built up and up, until the urge of breaking the progression would burn me.
Still, while he played for me, dusk quickly enveloped the outside world and I forgot that his magnetism was a mirage. The last rays of light fell on his bent head, the silver streaks in his hair glowing like the halo of a forgotten angel, and his fingers moved in a dance all their own.
It was so open, so genuine, that for just a moment, the little things stopped mattering. Little things like him being on the short side or being so pale and skinny he looked sickly. Like the knowledge that the first time some guy with black-lacquered nails put a foot inside my house, my dad would have a heart attack.
I relaxed, and even though Keith wasn’t looking at me, I saw his lips curl in a small, happy smile, as he kept playing for me in this little bubble, away from the world at large. Music was his life, he’d said. His soul. And right there and right then he showed me every recess of his innermost self and I marveled at his gift.
After a moment, just when it felt like it was impossible to hold on to the melody any longer, in that perfect instant where everything stood balanced on the edge, he broke the tension and let his notes fall into despair, spiraling down and picking up their pace the longer they fell.
Night also fell on us, following his tempo to the point where I couldn’t tell who was leading whom. Some notes vibrated in spite of the speed at which he played, but he cut most of them short, drowning them before they had a chance to be born, and I saw him furrowing his brow, concentrating… composing as he played, I realized with a start.
The guy was a real genius. And the piece he was producing was so complex and rich it could have replaced the Lady Windermere theme.
I frowned as soon as the thought entered my mind.
No, it’s too different.
The style might have been similar, as if it could fit equally well in any Season party, but the message couldn’t be further from the one the play sought to convey. This time, it was a tale of innocence, of passion for life, of wonder… and then the feeling swelled and turned into love and a different kind of passion that was too pure, too innocent. It was unsustainable, bound to burn like the moth who becomes fascinated with the flame, any moment—
A horrible screeching sound made me jump and interrupted the song. Keith looked up, confusion written all over his face, and he had to blink twice before his gaze focused on the stupid cat that had cut him short.
Sparrow had stood on the table, back arched, all hackles raised, green eyes intent on Keith. When the
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