Page 66 of Condemned By Pain
I get up from the couch and call for Bruno. He’s on the floor, belly-down, all four legs sprawled out like a dropped puppet.
“Bruno, my beautiful boy. Let’s go for a walk.”
He’s up in an instant, padding over to me. We leave our sanctuary and roam the first floor.
There must be fifty rooms in this mansion—an obscene number—and not one of them is fun. Well, I’d be stunned to find a theater. Or a disco. Or even a proper sitting room in this man’s house.
The only interesting things here are the piano and the rose garden upstairs.
“This is one hell of a boring house.” I glance down at Bruno. “Right, Bruno?”
He looks up, mouth open, tongue lolling, lips stretched into a doggy grin.
I pat his head. “My sweet baby.”
We reach upstairs. The light in the garden mimics bright daylight—even though there’s no sun. I guess this artificial sunlight must be for the plants’ photosynthesis.
I settle onto the piano bench. No one’s closed the piano since I opened it. I don’t think anyone ever comes here. I’ve never seen anyone so much as glance toward the stairs. Yet the place looks clean, and the plants are regularly watered. Maybe my captor takes care of it all.
I lift my hands and press the keys at random. Soon enough, a melody begins forming itself. It’s bittersweet, rising from my bittersweet heart. The giddy joy of falling in love, tangled with the ache of falling for the wrong one.
I close my eyes and let the music pour out of me.
When I finish and open my eyes, I find myself under the gaze of eyes that look like ash in daylight.
“Do you like piano music?”
“Only when you play.” He walks closer as he says it.
“This is a textbook case of mixed signals, Mr. Tyrant,” I tell him, trying to sound unaffected. But I know he can see just how affected I am—from the heat in my flushed cheeks.
He doesn’t respond.
I slide over, making room on the small bench.
“Would you like to play with me?”
After a heartbeat of hesitation, he settles beside me, his left side pressing against my right. My heart races. A tremor runs through my whole body. Even through our clothes, the heat of his skin sears into mine.
“Do you know any piece?” I attempt to speak, but only a fragile whisper comes out, lost beneath the pounding of my own heart.
“A few.” His voice is husky.
“Start it. I’ll join you.”
He presses the keys—hesitant at first, with long pauses between notes, like he’s reaching back through years to remember.
After a few minutes, I recognize it: I Need You. I join in as the secondo, taking the bass line, the rhythm, building the harmony beneath his melody. We fall into sync. Perfect, wordless sync.
He misses a few beats, but I fill in, and together we create something beautiful. It might not be perfect to anyone else, but to me, it is. Our hands brush, our hearts connected by a single thread of melody. It’s our composition. His and mine.
As we reach verse three, I start singing, letting my voice merge with our piano piece.
“I don’t need the heavens opening wide,
Or angels singing from the other side.
I just need your heart beating close to mine,
