Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24996913-20151104055425

I have two different approaches with this story, but I'm leaning with this version. Let me know what you think.

Ever since I could remember, I've sat before the piano. My parents, after I turned three years old, quickly handed me off to my piano instructor, Mrs.Wilkins. Due to the stress, and the increasing tension amongst my mother and father, I had become the leash holding together two rabid dogs. Being that their animosity only intensified in my presence, to give off an allusion of normalcy, I was enrolled into piano lessons, vocal training, and acting lessons just to keep me out of the house until bed time.

My mother, bless her heart, was quite the vocalist in her time. She was a glorified opera singer, and had travelled the world performing alongside amazing talent and entertainers. One day, after a big performance at Palais Garnier, my mother laid eyes on a beautiful musician. This man, my father, happened to bump into her as she and her friends walked towards their waiting taxi. Over and over, whenever my mom sipped on a few too many glasses of Cabernet, I was reminded of their passionate love story.

The tale was so beautiful, I didn't believe it to be true. I felt with all my heart that it was a drunken tale my mother created in delusion. Regardless of my doubt, due to the countless nights throughout my childhood hiding away in my room, closet, or attic, I found the photo albums and video tapes proving that her claims were true. They did love each-other once.

Unfortunately, their love died the second I was born. My mother no longer stood on the stage, in front of thousands of rich and influential people. The spotlight no longer illuminated her beautiful face and indescribable voice. She lost everything the day I was born. Hell, the day she found out she was pregnant.

My father, much less renown in his musical prowess, also lost his magic touch. I seemed to drain the passion from them with every cry and every whimper. Each and every passing day, I noticed less enthusiasm in their eyes. Though I knew they loved me, as much as they possibly could, I also understood that they regretted me.

Though I could comprehend the burden I had become to them as I grew, I also wanting nothing more than to prove to them that I was worth all of their losses. Quickly, I dominated every stage I performed on. At the age of 13, I sold out concert halls, opera houses, and performed on Broadway musicals. I would stay up late perfecting my craft just to see my mother reminisce back to the days she had stood where I was standing. The light in her eyes - it was all I ever wanted to see.

Regardless of my emotional dependence on my parents attention, I could do nothing to stop the fighting. As I said before, I hid most nights. Screams would overwhelm our house on a nightly basis, the forest and secluded setting surrounding it capturing the collision of shouting and shattering glass. At the very beginning, I would run out of my room, attempting to break the two apart as they physically attempted to hurt one another. Though I tried my damnedest, most of the time, my interference only escalated the situation.

After a while, I got used to it. Instead of crying, interrupting the synchronous shouting, I was introduced to a new way to deal with the trauma. Mrs.Wilkins had noticed my deepening dark circles from a lack of sleep, and seemed to immediately understand everything I couldn't tell anyone because I had no time for friends. She explained to me that we all have been in toxic environments at one point in our life, and that we all should expand from it. With that said, she offered to teach me how to find inspiration in despair. We worked on sheet music together, and she encouraged me to use music as a mechanism to become great rather than become another talented individual who chooses to wallow in gloom.

Needless to say, I would write music until they grew tired of screaming and their vocal cords exhausted. The sun would die and rise again before my pencil parted ways with the sheet music. I would play back their fights over and over, tailoring each key to each shout. Though I was by no means a sheet music expert, I quickly picked up the skill.

Once I made it out of high-school, moving on to a university and out of my parents home, I began to pursue a career in composing music. Right off the bat, I climbed the charts. My success hit instantly, and I felt on top of the world. After gaining permission to study abroad, I travelled all around, performing musical pieces that captured the audiences of Europe. My fanbase grew, and the spotlight never seemed to neglect me.

Though I had become everything I ever wanted to be, one very important element of life was missing: love. Love from my parents was a priority, but unfortunately, a year into college, my parents divorced. Neither contacted me on a routine basis, even with my countless attempts to reach them. So I had to find love elsewhere.

There were numerous men in the orchestra that salivated at the thought of taking me out on a date, but one man, a violinist and opera singer, caught my eye before anyone else could. Sebastian Gnoff. He was devoted to his work, beautiful, and perplexing. His eyes caught my attention one day at rehearsals, as he glanced up at me for a moment, smirking nervously. He didn't badger me with attention. He kept to himself, staying after most nights to perfect his routine rather than following up rehearsals with a trip to the bar.

I found that quite alluring.

So I approached him, he accepted after playing hard to get, and we decided on a date night. I remember the scent of the night, the glow of the moon reflected in the river below the bridge we walked upon, and the breeze that blew through my hair with each step. I was so desperate for him to find me worthy of his time that I was blind to everything else. Like his violin, he played every string to perfection that night, capturing my awe. After dinner, sight seeing, and pleasant conversation, we parted ways and I began my walk back home.

Right before I twisted the doorknob of my apartment, I was pushed from behind, tumbling into the apartment and onto the ground. The door closed behind me, and the lock sounded as I tried to stand after the fall. A familiar voice sliced through the intense atmosphere, breaking the silence but inducing fear in the pit of my stomach. I questioned him at first, hoping for a logical answer in return, but I received nothing but aggression. He shouted at me as I struggled beneath him, screaming in my ear for me to be quiet. Hands I held minutes prior, quickly pinned me down and covered my mouth.

After that night, I saw him daily. Because I was scared, in shock, and in pain, I didn't report him to the authorities. On top of that, I couldn't stomach becoming a victim. My talents would have been overshadowed and I would be remembered not as the beautiful, brilliant musician, but as the girl ravaged. So I sat next to him, performed amongst him, and stayed after rehearsals with him and others. I had to pretend he hadn't done a thing.

After some weeks past, things really declined. I couldn't hold anything down, I lost weight due to my constant vomiting, and exhaustion pulled me down so much that I stopped composing, which in turn caused eyebrows to raise. Due to my unusual sickness, I missed countless rehearsals and college courses. It didn't take a genius to know what was going on, and I was quickly put on leave and kicked out of school because of it.

The solitude of alone time got to me. I attempted composing, but my mind was clouded with sadness. I couldn't sing, I couldn't write, I couldn't do anything but cry.

Eventually, as my belly extended and my self-pity began to dry up, I remembered what I had been taught all of those years ago. Mrs.Wilkin's voice rung out in my head, and my grieving quickly subsided with the remembrance of my childhood. With ease, I began to reflect on that night.

Every cry, scream, and struggle had its distinct sound, and every key on my piano embodied the experience. It took maybe a week for me to finish the piece, and it took no time after its release for my fans to fall in love with it. I was gaining back my audience, capturing the attention of new fans, and selling sheet music with ease. I couldn't stand another stint of writer's block.

So I began composing more often, which required a lot of energy and planning for a pregnant woman. In the beginning stages, it was easy for me to gather people and chain them up. After a while, as my belly grew and my body tired, I had to use various ploys such as ruffies and chloroform to weaken them just enough to get them back to my house.

I would compose two or three pieces a day, my finger tips only leaving the piano keys when they were required to provoke my subjects. Sometimes a simple pinch would do, but my more stubborn subjects required a bit more play.

Knives are fun but extremely messy. It wasn't easy being pregnant and cleaning up all of the mess knives created. Plus, I couldn't inhale any toxic fumes like bleach in my condition, so I had to be creative. Depending on my hormonal levels, I would choose between a few different methods. One of my more agonizing favorites were acid baths. They were less maintenance but produced great screams. Some of my more popular compositions were the outcome of them.

Customers practically ran over each-other to buy my work once it was finished. The clean copy of every composition, the piano version, is marketed to my mainstream followers consisting of fellow opera singers, musicians, and wealthy men and women. The rough drafts are the audio recordings of my subjects, which are more discreet so they require more money. Rough drafts are given to the highest bidder once confidentiality papers are signed and submitted.

All in all, I've created quite the business. As Mrs. Wilkins would say, "find inspiration in despair." I have to say, I'm quite excited to welcome my baby into this world. Hopefully, he will grow to be a great composer like his mother. And hey, maybe his father will be his first... 