She had always loved the piano. When she was small she would sit on her father’s lap and close her eyes, listening as his fingers flowed gracefully over the ivory keys. It was part of her. Instilled on the inside where her soul rests. It became the only thing that held her together as years passed by her. As everybody knows, has some kind of sense of, things change. Especially as time goes by. It can’t be helped, and sometimes it’s a very good thing, change. Other times, it is wished away through angry tears. It seemed to her that that night spent swaying on her father’s knee as he made beautiful music, was followed by a morning where suddenly she wasn’t small anymore. She was thirteen now. Hiding in the bathroom of their house. Her parents still sleeping, it was still grey outside. She will never forget the first time she had to sneak into her mother’s make up bag to cover up the bruises on her face and arms before school.
He was furious. She hadn’t meant to, she had tripped. It was an easy fix, just some sandpaper and some wood finish and it would be good as new. She knew that, she knew he knew that. But he was boiling. It wasn’t like him. She was terrified. She tried to apologize. She was crying now. “Sorry?! You’re ‘sorry?!’” “Dad, I didn’t mean to, I just tripped, you can fix it, I’ve seen you fix worse things than that.” He paused, breathing hard. He walked up to her quickly, the creases in his face becoming deeper. She didn’t like the way it looked, it marred his face, usually soft with a permanent smirk, like he’d done something wonderful but no one knew about it yet. Now a harsh frown was cut into his features, and his eyebrows pulled down low. It didn’t look like her father. She didn’t know who this man was. He raised his hand. “Watch where you’re walking!” The back of his hand connected with her cheek. “Fixing it isn’t the point! You’re so clumsy, just watch it!” She was stunned. Shocked. He had hit her. How could he have hit her? Those hands the had made butterfly shadows on her bedroom wall, that had turned the pages of fairytales, cradled her little form when she was upset, braided her hair when mom wasn’t there, his hands the made such beautiful music. Now they had been angered, now they had made her upset. Her mom wouldn’t be home for another hour. She would never know.
She was seventeen now. A senior in high school. Hoping to go to college. Praying to get out of the place that had caused her so much pain.
“Sweetheart? Are you up? It’s time to get ready for school.” She heard her mom knocking and raising her voice through her bedroom door.
She scrambled for the lock on the bathroom door before responding, “Yeah, I’m up. I’m in the bathroom, I’ll be out in minute.” Her mom gave her an okay and walked towards the kitchen. She was still in front of the mirror, still in her pajamas. Tears running down her face as she examined her latest punishment from the night before. She didn’t remember what she had done that had made him so angry with her.
He never did it in front of her mother. He didn’t want her to know, neither did she. He would wait, he would curb his anger until she’d leave, or go to bed. He’d make an excuse, “I’ll finish these dishes and then I’ll be in,” or “I have some reading to do, then I’ll come to bed.” He was just as good a liar as his daughter had become. He was quiet, so was she. She never yelped or screamed, she just took it. Gasps were all that escaped her. She couldn’t fight back. He would get angrier, and he was much too strong for that. She came back, still in front of the mirror, still in her pajamas. She wiped her tears away and applied the needed product to cover up everything. Her dad knew she covered up. Her mom had no idea. She would even buy knew make up and replenish her mom’s collection so she wouldn’t notice the missing powders and concealers. She was becoming quite an expert. She hated it.
She left the bathroom when she was finished and went back into her bedroom. She clicked on her radio and let the music flood the room. Note after note on that wonderful instrument. It calmed her and soothed her. It reminded her of the good memories she had of her father. The hugs she had gotten, now afraid to go near him, the smell of pipe tobacco on him enveloping her as she laid on his chest, she loved the smell now turned sour. All those times of sitting on his lap, watching his fingers so graceful on the keys. She hadn’t heard him play in four years. She missed it so much it was a physical pain in her chest.
“Cyrus? Are you ready? You’re taking forever.” She opened her eyes. Time for school.
Wow. First of all, let me just say that I'm glad I'm not her! Second, I loved how you didn't reveal her name until the end.
The part about her hiding it from her mother makes me wonder if the mother is going to find out later in the story. Is she?
Have you decided on a title? I'd really like to know what you're calling it, because I think it would add even more to your story.
I hope you finish this and post it soon.
P.S. I would have given you REAL critiques, but I didn't really find anything to critique! I didn't even catch any typos!