He had never told her the truth about how she made him feel, about how much he loved her, and when he did, the song reaffirmed that he should’ve kept his mouth shut. At least she’d still be alive. But the song was pure and he wanted to play it for her. Even if her physical body wasn’t present, he could still sing to her…He scooped up the almost-dead whiskey bottle and finished what little was left. It slipped silently from his hand. Very drunk, he staggered over to the piano. The smoldering cigarette on the bedroom rug had burned its way over to the comforter. The cover caught and flames quickly spread throughout the bedroom. Discarded clothing acted as kindling and soon the bedroom was on fire.Until several hazy hours ago, His life, no matter how miserable, had been something most people could only dream about. It was only an illusion. He felt the thorns wrap around his heart and for the first time in far too long, felt human again. He’d smothered his spirituality in drug abuse. He’d stunted his health and personal growth with vice. He’d blinded himself because he was afraid to see that his purpose, his gift in life, was to be true to himself, to create music. He softly tapped the ivory keys, making melodies come to life through his fingers. No matter how badly his hand hurt, he persisted in making music. He was determined to play for her. With every fluid run, every harmony, every musical accent, his inner pain subsided a little. With each passing musical note.Sweating profusely, He felt something stirring behind him. He tried ignoring it for as long as possible. Finally, he turned and saw large flames billowing out of his bedroom. At first he thought it was a hallucination but the fire was scorchingly real and heading his way. His favorite guitar was already engulfed and dying. He wanted to save it but couldn’t…Wouldn’t….She was listening… Every time his fingers pressed the Steinway’s keys, crimson stained and smeared the ivory. He ignored the small red spots, sliding his long fingers through them. Scarred-up veins bulged from his forearms as sweat ran down his face. For the moment, he felt free from his demons. He built up the courage and began singing in his natural gruff voice. The thick carpeting quickly became a wall-to-wall inferno as a giant wave of fire rose up and spread around the piano. He couldn’t have cared less. As flames swallowed the apartment, He never screamed and never missed a note.

He had never told her the truth about how she made him feel, about how much he loved her, and when he did, the song reaffirmed that he should’ve kept his mouth shut. At least she’d still be alive. But the song was pure and he wanted to play it for her. Even if her physical body wasn’t present, he could still sing to her…

He scooped up the almost-dead whiskey bottle and finished what little was left. It slipped silently from his hand. Very drunk, he staggered over to the piano. The smoldering cigarette on the bedroom rug had burned its way over to the comforter. The cover caught and flames quickly spread throughout the bedroom. Discarded clothing acted as kindling and soon the bedroom was on fire.

Until several hazy hours ago, His life, no matter how miserable, had been something most people could only dream about. It was only an illusion. He felt the thorns wrap around his heart and for the first time in far too long, felt human again. He’d smothered his spirituality in drug abuse. He’d stunted his health and personal growth with vice. He’d blinded himself because he was afraid to see that his purpose, his gift in life, was to be true to himself, to create music. He softly tapped the ivory keys, making melodies come to life through his fingers. No matter how badly his hand hurt, he persisted in making music. He was determined to play for her. With every fluid run, every harmony, every musical accent, his inner pain subsided a little. With each passing musical note.

Sweating profusely, He felt something stirring behind him. He tried ignoring it for as long as possible. Finally, he turned and saw large flames billowing out of his bedroom. At first he thought it was a hallucination but the fire was scorchingly real and heading his way. His favorite guitar was already engulfed and dying. He wanted to save it but couldn’t…Wouldn’t….She was listening… Every time his fingers pressed the Steinway’s keys, crimson stained and smeared the ivory. He ignored the small red spots, sliding his long fingers through them. Scarred-up veins bulged from his forearms as sweat ran down his face. For the moment, he felt free from his demons. He built up the courage and began singing in his natural gruff voice. The thick carpeting quickly became a wall-to-wall inferno as a giant wave of fire rose up and spread around the piano. He couldn’t have cared less. As flames swallowed the apartment, He never screamed and never missed a note.

About Me
You seem nice.