Click

Click. Click. Click.

 

The fingers blurred together. Dancing with the black and white, pressing them down deeper into the dark holes where they belonged. Deep burgundy laced up hands, a reminder of the previous days. Or months. Or years. Time was lost upon the soul who sat, back straight as a pole, arms splayed out in front. From the eyes the tears spilled, splashing out a beat that wove between the clicks. A symphony of sorrow, lost to the ears of the others. Rolling down cheeks a pallid rose, slipping in streams across a neck and disappearing into a muted shirt. Grey eyes, grey hair, grey skin. A grey person with grey fingers tapping on black keys. Achromatic figure of overflowing diction, lacerated by the beams of aspiration, pieces sent scattering beneath dusty couches and closed doors – away from the clicking monotone which filled the room to bursting. It kept coming, till every echo seemed to bounce off the next, a rising cacophony born from only fingers as words formed on a white page on a reflective screen. When the clicking finally stopped, the sound kept going. Continuous in a burning mind, alive with the touch of power from writing, and smoking from the acid darkness that had rolled forth. But it was too late, for the tears had filled up the small room before the water could drain beneath the crack under the door, and so the soul sat. Hands splayed out in front, hair an ebbing pattern lifted by the current expelled by the dying breath. Still all so grey – except for the words. They seemed to tibulate and pulse, capering in freedom as they glowed in brilliant hues, expelled from the lifeless body. And so they froliced to the music, still resounding off soggy walls, and called to the next willing victim.

Click. Click. Click.