I enter Hiro’s class and he hands me a manila folder. “You’re ahead on today’s lesson. Why don’t you go ahead and file these for me.”
“Yes sir.” Taking the manila folder, I leave class. Most weeks I look forward to this small flit of freedom, but I feel sick today, sick for the boy, sick for the girl who screamed, sick for the crying girl at the auction. It’s hard to stand straight and walk, like there’s a chain pulling me to the floor. I want to lie down and curl up, but there’s no safe place to curl into.
When I go into the storage warehouse, the lights are all off, which means they’ll have to warm up, something that usually takes a good ten minutes. But I don’t really need them, so I grab a flashlight off a shelf and find the cabinet I need. Dust floats through the beam, revealing rows and rows of metal filing cabinets. Old desks and broken chairs with some other stuff I can’t even identify are piled up in the corners of the section I use. The dust makes me cough as it floats through the damp air, past the cabinets and behind the piles of rubbish to a rotting, out-of-tune piano.
If I hadn’t seen pictures of pianos in books, I wouldn’t have known they had white keys. The dirt and dust have discolored them so much that they’re both the same shade of dirty brown.
Hiro always gives me a thick enough stack of papers to file that no one wonders why I’m gone for the whole period. But the papers aren’t important. I doubt they really even need filed.
The first few times I came down here, I went through every single paper, making sure that everything on Hiro’s list was checked perfectly. Then, one day something was between them, a photograph of clean ivory and black piano keys. On the back was written two words, “try it.”
That’s the day I found this old thing. I didn’t know how to use it. I didn’t even know it was out of tune. I didn’t know what tune was. But over the past few years, Hiro has slipped in bits and pieces into the envelope to help me figure it out. The first thing he sent was a whistle. It took me a while to figure out it was used for tuning. The next gift he sent was a set of some really complicated wrenches. Tuning wrenches. I didn’t have instructions, and I still don’t know if I’ve tuned it right, but I’ve got it so at least it sounds better than it used to.
I look in the folder. No gifts from Hiro today, just papers to file. I sign off on the checklist and file them without looking, then take a seat at the piano. The storage room is tucked in a forgotten corner of the Facility, so I can play as loud as I want and no one will hear.
The keys are as cold as ever and covered in dust. I use a rag to wipe it down before resting my fingers in place. I can’t read music; but I’ve learned the names of the notes thanks to some sheets Hiro slipped to me. Shutting off the flashlight, I place it on the piano top, then play notes to spread through the dark room.
I can only play one song.
It’s a slow melody, which lowers my pulse, slows my breathing; but it’s repetitive too, so whatever it is it makes me feel, it gets built up with each repetition. It’s not monotonous for me, playing the same notes over and over, because I change them just a little, to add an extra relief, or an extra jab if I’m angry. Either way, I feel a little better and a little worse every time I play.
Time’s up so I close the keyboard’s lid and make my way back into the dusty walkways of the Facility.
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