[attr="class","stappbody2"]

[attr="class","stappbody3"]

this is so sad

From dawn 'til dusk, barring bare minimum meals, my ass becomes one with the bench. My feet mold to the curve of cold, brass pedals, and my fingerprints splash black and white keys.[break]
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My throat scratches up and down the musical staff, shifting gears and swinging rhythms. Replay. The same melody rattles my bones, until it fades, thank fuck, to the background. Necessity breeds innovation, and lemme tell ya, I innovate. A neat trick I call "tuning out." It convinces me I'm nothing more than an oiled automaton, Salem's most exorbitant jukebox.[break]
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Mother monitors technique. Father pushes passion. We don't talk anymore.[break]
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My big bro listens, a silent audience, neither judge nor executioner. While my own start to blur from year-long exhaustion, he sends me apologetic eyes. He tries in vain to burn the oversized shoes he's inadvertently left me to fill.[break]
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Naturally curious, sometimes to a fault I'll admit, I ask everyone the same question. I know the who, what, where, when, and I clearly suffer the how. I just want them to tell me why.[break]
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Aunts and uncles, some many times removed, follow the annual script. They divide over décor, clash in the kitchen, and wish everyone's children good luck, all while slipping acid into their kind words, hoping their rivals will burn.[break]
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They fill my loved ones with lies. Dear cousins who leapt into rivers with me, stole from orchards with me, set off midnight fire alarms with me, now aim knives at my back. We vie for the pinnacle of hierarchy in a clan intoxicated with order.[break]
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The Recital is here. I'm placed to play last, the anticipated grand finale. Mother and Father politely applaud as I bow before taking a seat. Humble in pretense yet smug in their grins, only we know how the previous compare. Contending families squirm in their seats, wringing their hands, dreading.[break]
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Lining the front row, my cousins avoid eye contact. They've heard me perform before I was whisked away and thrown behind bars, imprisoned until perfection. They know they stand no chance.[break]
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My hands rest atop the keys. The piano remains mute. What my parents afterward handwave as stage fright is my protest against clan law.[break]
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A voice unfamiliar, later confirmed as my familiar, begs me to acquiesce. To play. To not tarnish tradition.[break]
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"Alexi, play Tespacito."[break]
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how u doin lil mama lemme whispa in ya ear

His name was… eh, doesn't matter now. Days cycled, faces passed, while routine drove him to tears. He just wanted some consistency. Reliable distraction from his piss poor life that, as he decayed, amplified that nasal whine telling him to get over himself, take some fucking responsibility, the kind that threatened to strip him of his choice to tell the world he won't follow your goddamn rules.[break]
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He was lonely.[break]
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I wasn't.[break]
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We say, "I do," and he breathes taboo for only me to hear.[break]
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When we're alone, Ciri asks why I didn't reciprocate. I mutter something about climbing divorce rates, and she releases an age-old sigh. Besides, if he's a good spouse, he won't ever utter the false name I slid him.[break]
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I've always wondered where ground truths come from. They say curiosity killed the cat. I was so, so curious, and his cat was so, so weak. I'm proud to say that I can confirm with absolute certainty that witches indeed lose their minds upon familiar death.[break]
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Ciri hesitated at first, but she came around eventually. I'm persuasive like that. But not persuasive enough. She expresses regret, gets moody at times, gives me the cold shoulder too often. It's a phase, I know her, she'll move on. The sooner the better, because I can't sing like I used to, and there are so many more truths to uncover.