Standing with the Seated

So this creative piece was an exam I wrote and I kind impressed myself with the layers I added... enjoy!

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It is a difficult situation to be certain. I burn with this fire, one which is hard to ingore because it consumes all of me...

Gemma stared at the words, clean, straight and unyielding on the page. She sighed, closed

her eyes and lost herself once again to the memories that pressed down on her, forcing her to relinquish her hold on certainty.

It had been three months and fourteen days since she lost her hope. All of her friends and family had tried to comfort her, patting her on the back and telling her that it was going to be okay, but they were simply words of stone. They offered no relief, no deliverance from the pain she faced with every recalled memory.

What he did to her was cruel. She felt as she had been broken into a million different fragments, bits of her strewn all over the floor; and he stomped on her, and she got stuck to the underside of his boots, boots that were walking away with her very essence still clinging to them. It was that very essence that she crawled after him to retrieve, but he would turn around, and glance at her with this look so full of pity and love and assurance that she would want to rise up and fall into his arms. But he would draw that boot back and administer a blow to her stomach, as if that would cure her agony; gone an done, she was finished.

Gemma had truely been in love once. He was perfect to her: tall, handsome and sensitive, an unusual factor in men, but with her paren'ts dislike of him and the desperate need to pelase everybody, Gemma was hard pressed to make ends meet. She honestly loved him, and even when she said that they should break it off, all those months ago, she had loved him. Every moment of every day since, she was faced with the difficulties and uncertainty of being lost and lonely, scared to admit that she was a broken vessel, no use to anyone but as a trophy of hard times passed.

Unfortunately she continued to love him.

Yet in her days of defeat, she found comfort in her piano.

The baby grand Yamaha was polished to a shiny jet, facing the large picturesque window that faced the gardens. Gemma would sit at that piano, fingers caressing the ebony and ivory keys and pouring her distress and pain into the songs of her fingers. Rarely did she record the heartfelt emotions onto paper as each new song was a rollercoaster of hope and anguish.

It was then that she sat down onto that bench, the soft leather fondling her legs where her shorts didn't quite cover. She lifted the cover, exposing the painted keys and leaned over them, feeling the hope that seemed to radiate from the wood.

She began to play.

She also began to forget, to stop feeling, to halt the trobbing that had taken a place down deep in her chest. And she played songs of sadness and pain, regret and dismay, but also songs of hope and joy, for she knew what lay ahead would have to get better. All of this to recall the mess she had left to bring it to the music and get back ot the heart. She faced the reality that was being exposed within her.

He was gone.

He was not coming back.

She would have to start a new path for herself, one that would take her to golden times where she would forget her worries.

Gemma blinked, startled by the bluntness of the thing, the terrible lack of malice, and the truth of it. She had never felt this way before, the drive to forget the pain and start again with calm.

And she smiled.