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The Enigma

by Hugo 2 months ago in art / fiction / psychological

"Who am I?"

She is an acclaimed pianist, or is she?

“Who am I?”

There is a black notebook in front of her.

“Ruth Blichar.”

Her red lips whisper while slim fingers gently flip over the first page.

Some texts slowly appear on the blank page.

“you can’t change it, you can't fix it, and you can't make it.”

Boom. Something collapses in front of the two-floor gray Victorian suburban house. She rushes outside and sees a crushed black grand piano on the lawn. The keyboards with bloodstains are scattered all over the vast empty field. The house starts to burn. The malicious red flame is devouring from inside: It is bursting out from the two rectangle wooden windows on the second floor and makes it look like a smiling devil from hell. The sun slowly rises on the vast horizon of the east casting a long snake-like shadow on the burning house.

Ruth wakes up and breathing heavily. She remembers everything. She is an acclaimed pianist whose dream is to perform in Konzerthaus in Vienna. She has been training like a factory machine since the age of five. Six hours a day of practice is standard. She can’t live without the piano, or the meaning of her life will be diminished.

The gentleness of Chopin flows through the fresh mid-summer air, which engrosses much attention from people on the sidewalk. Today is Saturday. Ruth likes to play the colourful semi-rotten vintage piano in the park to relax before Sunday’s big performance. Her ex-boyfriend Luke stops by.

“I like your turquoise dress, you always look pretty in it. “

Ruth smiles, her fingers keep dancing on the moist dirty keyboard. There was a light shower in the morning.

“Hey babe, do you want to come by tonight?”

“Nah, I need to prepare for tomorrow’s big performance. And you know I’m dating someone else.” Ruth replied.

“That Pastor? Are you still crazy?”

“You’re not my father, what do you know about him.” Ruth pauses the music.

“Ok, I don’t care about your issue. Anyway, that’s not my reason here.” Luke signs.

“I don’t have money for a loser like you.” Ruth stares at the keyboard and shakes her head lightly, her voice is weak but adamant.

Luke looks furious. His hands are swinging up and down like an ecstatic conductor. “Oh come on, I just need a little extra cash for my trade! It’s surging up again, it will soon be double, no, triple, quadruple, and, tenfold! you know how bitcoins are these days, I’ll pay you back every single dime, plus interest!”

“No, I don’t need your interest, and I’m broke because of you, can’t you see?” Ruth retorts.

The crushed grand piano is consuming by an army of ants, and slowly decaying to the wooden skeleton. The scattered bloodstained keyboards shapeshift into millions of dollars and burnt in a split second. Hundreds of rum bottles fall from the crimson sky. They smash onto the ground like a firework on the New-Year's eve. Ruth observes the decaying of the piano. Suddenly, she is laying on the hospital bed. The doctor mumbles, “ You need thirty grand to cover the course of the chemotherapy.”

“Life insurance from my husband was about twenty grand, plus my saving, I think I will have enough for the treatment.” The skeleton of the piano melts into a large $20000 paper check. A young woman, about 20 years old, shoulder-length blond hair, drowsy eyes, red lips, stands beside it. She grabs the check and shouts, “ You don’t deserve this, I know the truth and you can’t control me forever!” Her eyes fill with tears, rage, and anger. The young woman runs away and disappears into the darkness.

The crispy moon reveals its fragments intermittently among the dark wrinkled clouds. The moist air foreshadows the coming of an ominous thunderstorm. The street is brightly lit in front of the grand cathedral.

“Thank you for coming, the audience is waiting for your majestic performance.” The Pastor, tall, gaunt face, roman nose, deep eyes, who is dressed in a formal black suit, leads Ruth to the plush golden grand hall. She is wearing a silky red dress. The music slowly echoes and dances around the space. The nostalgic memories melt in the music. Ruth is in a state of meditation: She forgets the existence of time, identities, and goals. Her teardrops fall onto the keyboard, she thought that’s it: Ruth Blichar has accomplished her biggest dream, yet somehow she feels empty.

The raindrops start to tap the ground silently.

Intermission.

“The Lord will praise for the ecstasy and joy you bring to the world. ”

“Come by my place tonight.” The pastor smiled.

“I can’t,” Ruth hesitated and whispered to herself.

“You will, I have what you need.”

“I, can’t, I can’t...”

“Either you will, or it will disappear. You are the fake one, the imposter! Only I give you a sense of purpose. Do you remember who you are? You are the child of the abandoned one! Please contemplate deeply about the death of your mother. Fear, greed, vengeance. You’ve committed the sin that has no redemption can save you, except me!” The pastor shouts with rage and anger.

“No, I can’t, you can’t control me like what they did!” Ruth screams back with great madness. There is no one in the washroom, only her reflection on the large gold framed mirror.

Suddenly a triple-bolt of lightning crackles and hits the street lights. The earth shakes from the echo of the Thundergod. Electricity sparks for a brief moment before the bulbs die out. The thunderstorm is pouring down, and the emotionless flood is forming around the sewage.

Everyone is waiting for the second half of the performance impatiently. Part of the crowd starts to get restless. One irritated black-suit gentleman stands up and shouts: “Where is Jane?” Speak of the devil, She appears on the stage and trots toward the black grand piano. Everyone stares at her with wary and fear. Some women cover their mouths to hide their surprises. She raises the red fire axe and smashes it onto the keyboard as hard as she can. The Pastor in the front row stands up and tries to calm her down. No use. She keeps smashing the piano like a madman even after the police sirens echo from the outside of the wet, moist grand cathedral that's covered by a heavy fog. It looks like a mirage, but it does exist objectively.

“Who am I?”

There is a black notebook in front of her.

“Jane Blichar.”

Her red lips whisper while her slim finger gently flips over the first page.

artfictionpsychological
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