An interest, a comfort, a saviour by Thomas, Whitefriars College
Michael sat before the piano, bewildered by its magnificence. Compelled by silence, he pressed one of the notes. Hopeful of creating music, he sounded another, and another, until a musical atrocity filled the room.
His bodily movements, spasmodic and uncontrollable, debilitated his every action. Weeping in disgust and despair, he hurried away before anyone caught him. Michael now lay on his bed, listening to his parents’ argument. His arms and legs convulsed and he knocked a glass off his bedside table.
“Look at him, Marie! He’s an outcast! What will he be when we’re gone?”
“He’s our son, Leonard!” Michael’s mother began sobbing vulnerably.
“Look at my career! He’s going to tarnish my reputation, all I’ve ever worked for!”
A tear squeezed out of the corner of Michael’s eye. He began to doze but an urge to urinate overpowered him. He awkwardly rose from his bed and proceeded to the toilet. Mum always tells me to sit down. At first his hands remained steady, but they soon remonstrated. He couldn’t stop himself from soiling everything.
Michael walked into the sitting room, undignified. His mother sat defeated on the couch, eyes puffy and red. Cold air streamed through the gaping front door, coiling around the room like a snake. She arose and embraced him. Michael jolted uncontrollably in her arms but she held him firm, her large bosom softening his motions.
“I caan –’t ha-l-pp i-i-t.”
His face glistened with tears, each tear’s trail as succinct as a street on a map. The Sun’s rays pierced the shutters and Michael woke, lathered in sweat. He got up and swagged around the house; everything stale, everything stale yellow. Peering into his parents’ bedroom, he saw an unsettled, fragile body – his mother. His father’s bed sheets lay undisturbed.
Perturbed at his findings, Michael exclaimed, “The bas-bast-ard!”
Michael ran through the hallway to the front porch. He continued down the stairs, tripping on the third step and falling. Grazed, he started up the road: livid, volatile, abusive. As if magnetised, he soon stood outside the school he had once attended. Seeing the cold, metal gates reminded Michael of the children worse off than him, whose parents had never picked them up from school.
A young girl with a large, round face and wide spectacles emerged from one of the buildings, holding hands with a boy of similar appearance. Upon noticing Michael, they waved. Heartened by their warmth, Michael reciprocated the greeting. They accepted Michael’s stuttered words, unafraid of a teenager burdened with cerebral palsy and more obviously, covered in blood stains. The children disappeared back into the school buildings and Michael decided to walk home before his mother noticed his absence.
On the corner of Michael’s street stood a timber, double storey house. He found this house a curiosity. Piano music, textured and warm like a blanket, wafted from an open window of this house into the street. Ignoring hostile glances, Michael sat on the ground and wept.
The man playing the piano first laid eyes on Michael years ago. An enormous sense of pity for Michael and his mother had overwhelmed him, because he too shared a relationship with a social outcast, his wife. She now sat beside him, inanimate, with sunken eyes and a hanging jaw. Her position enabled her to see not only her husband, but out of the window. She moaned. The man stopped playing and turned to see her eyes darting back and forth from the window. She continued to moan, not painfully, but with an air of hope. She wished her husband to play a song that would lift Michael’s spirits. He pulled a score from the cavity in his seat and began to play.
Soon a jovial, majestic tune flowed from the window of the house. As if the music had enlightened him, Michael’s body rose from the ground and began to make all sorts of movements. He began dancing. People gathered around him and sneered, throwing small, silver coins at his feet.
“Keep dancing ya monkey!”
Sarcastic, malignant guffaws filled the air from adults and children alike. In the ordeal, they did not realise that the piano had stopped or that the pianist had stormed out of the house.
“Where are you from, hey? Mars? Venus?”
“Watch the spastic, he’s getting angry!”
“Silence!” bellowed an iron voice.
The old man’s disgusted stare softened as his eyes met Michael’s.
“Boy, ignore their hard hearts, fetch your ma and le’ me teach you the piano.”
Michael sat before the piano, bewildered by its magnificence. Compelled by silence, he pressed one of the notes. Hopeful of creating music, he sounded another, and another, until a musical atrocity filled the room.
His bodily movements, spasmodic and uncontrollable, debilitated his every action. Weeping in disgust and despair, he hurried away before anyone caught him. Michael now lay on his bed, listening to his parents’ argument. His arms and legs convulsed and he knocked a glass off his bedside table.
“Look at him, Marie! He’s an outcast! What will he be when we’re gone?”
“He’s our son, Leonard!” Michael’s mother began sobbing vulnerably.
“Look at my career! He’s going to tarnish my reputation, all I’ve ever worked for!”
A tear squeezed out of the corner of Michael’s eye. He began to doze but an urge to urinate overpowered him. He awkwardly rose from his bed and proceeded to the toilet. Mum always tells me to sit down. At first his hands remained steady, but they soon remonstrated. He couldn’t stop himself from soiling everything.
Michael walked into the sitting room, undignified. His mother sat defeated on the couch, eyes puffy and red. Cold air streamed through the gaping front door, coiling around the room like a snake. She arose and embraced him. Michael jolted uncontrollably in her arms but she held him firm, her large bosom softening his motions.
“I caan –’t ha-l-pp i-i-t.”
His face glistened with tears, each tear’s trail as succinct as a street on a map. The Sun’s rays pierced the shutters and Michael woke, lathered in sweat. He got up and swagged around the house; everything stale, everything stale yellow. Peering into his parents’ bedroom, he saw an unsettled, fragile body – his mother. His father’s bed sheets lay undisturbed.
Perturbed at his findings, Michael exclaimed, “The bas-bast-ard!”
Michael ran through the hallway to the front porch. He continued down the stairs, tripping on the third step and falling. Grazed, he started up the road: livid, volatile, abusive. As if magnetised, he soon stood outside the school he had once attended. Seeing the cold, metal gates reminded Michael of the children worse off than him, whose parents had never picked them up from school.
A young girl with a large, round face and wide spectacles emerged from one of the buildings, holding hands with a boy of similar appearance. Upon noticing Michael, they waved. Heartened by their warmth, Michael reciprocated the greeting. They accepted Michael’s stuttered words, unafraid of a teenager burdened with cerebral palsy and more obviously, covered in blood stains. The children disappeared back into the school buildings and Michael decided to walk home before his mother noticed his absence.
On the corner of Michael’s street stood a timber, double storey house. He found this house a curiosity. Piano music, textured and warm like a blanket, wafted from an open window of this house into the street. Ignoring hostile glances, Michael sat on the ground and wept.
The man playing the piano first laid eyes on Michael years ago. An enormous sense of pity for Michael and his mother had overwhelmed him, because he too shared a relationship with a social outcast, his wife. She now sat beside him, inanimate, with sunken eyes and a hanging jaw. Her position enabled her to see not only her husband, but out of the window. She moaned. The man stopped playing and turned to see her eyes darting back and forth from the window. She continued to moan, not painfully, but with an air of hope. She wished her husband to play a song that would lift Michael’s spirits. He pulled a score from the cavity in his seat and began to play.
Soon a jovial, majestic tune flowed from the window of the house. As if the music had enlightened him, Michael’s body rose from the ground and began to make all sorts of movements. He began dancing. People gathered around him and sneered, throwing small, silver coins at his feet.
“Keep dancing ya monkey!”
Sarcastic, malignant guffaws filled the air from adults and children alike. In the ordeal, they did not realise that the piano had stopped or that the pianist had stormed out of the house.
“Where are you from, hey? Mars? Venus?”
“Watch the spastic, he’s getting angry!”
“Silence!” bellowed an iron voice.
The old man’s disgusted stare softened as his eyes met Michael’s.
“Boy, ignore their hard hearts, fetch your ma and le’ me teach you the piano.”