The memories are as faded as the yellowed ivory keys; the
feel of burnished tusk against his fingers, the oak pressing hard against the
backs of his legs, melody clashing with pitch and the cascading baritone of his
voice to create something shimmering, smooth, glittering prettily in the dim
yellow light and twirling through the air. The sound rings in his ears,
reverberates in his chest, and soon his heart is keeping time, music and
music-maker unified by a rhythm locked within the intricate lacings of the
past.
It isn’t long before the pain becomes too much.
The music dims to a low whine, and the aching feeling of an
era passed rattles in his bones. The memories, previously covered in a thick
layer of dust, tug doggedly at the folds of his skin and the sallow lines of
his face, and it is all he can do not to think about them.
The process of disentangling himself from the past is
incredibly slow going, and each heave is a little more difficult. If he isn’t
careful, he’ll become trapped there- too enthralled with the prospect of what
life once was, and is no more, and will never be again. Slowly, tiredly, he
tucks his eyelids back into his skull, raps his knuckles against the bar, and
takes another swig of brandy.
