I drank tea alone from a chipped cup. I set it on the piano and began to practice. I didn’t know the names of the notes. I closed my eyes and tried to decide what sounded good toegether and what did not.
If I could only focus on the piano my pain would not be so much. The pounding in my head would lesson, the stress would shiver out of my arms, and my thighs would be clean. If I could only hear the brightness and stretch the sound into a door that only I had a key for, I would be safe.
I drank tea and I played the piano. I tried to breathe when i pressed the pedal. I tried not to cry when the door opened and I was yelled at. I was told to stop. The noise is too much.
But the silence is too much. The loneliness is much much too much. The blaring sense of shame is too loud without the piano to blur the lines of wrong and right. I hear sermons on repeat in my head. I know that I should already be dead. A virgin has value. An unmarried girl with no hymen has no value. None at all. No one will want me. This lonliness will continue forever and ever, with the only breaks being admonishments from people who managed to remain pure.
I tried to be pure. I remembered too much. There was nothing of me to save, not after. I was not a virgin when I didn’t even know what virgin was. Now I know and it is too late. I can not take back what happened then, and I can’t stop what happens now. I can only close my eyes, and try to sink into a note so far. Under a sea of sound I am nothing. I mean nothing. There is only this sound and this note, over and over, hammering into me the colours of pale thread my grandmother’s favorite quilt is stitched with, and then past that, further back, to when the thread was being made on a loom, and then to the sheep that didn’t know how it contributed to me being violated. It did not know what I could focus on, focus on so completely I could be gone.