Page 24 of Cursed Lifeline

Why?

I can't make sense of it.

Only one thing is for certain: Esme can't give me her heart, and I won't let her have mine in return because I know how this story ends.

Never well.

Not just for me, but for the two of us.

Nine

Felix

Song: Marche Funebre (The Funeral March) | Frederic Chopin

Runningmy fingers lightly over the keys, I dabble with a tune in legato. Smooth, connected, my hands dance over the black and white ivory as the music fills the room and I let out a deep sigh.

It’s too light.

Too uplifting.

I don’t feel connected to the melody like I normally do.

As if sensing my need, my fingers pound harsher against the keys.

A piece I’ve dabbled with before flows effortlessly through me.

Intense. Profound. It becomes an extension of the way I’m feeling. With it, it brings a warning I’d be smart to heed as visions fill my head, thoughts of the forbidden threaten to steal my next breath, and the beating of my cursed heart thunders from the idea of one woman.

My fingers repeat the foreboding melody before they dance into a lighter tune. One filled with hope. Faith. A belief that there is more to this fated meeting between Esmerelda and I than meets the eye. I play with the tune for a while, letting it fill me with confidence. Optimism. And though I know better, I give myself over to desire. To her. To the idea of how beautiful our love could be if I were mortal.

A future. Marriage. Family.

The trio of idealistic yearnings pulls me in for the first time in a hundred years.

But creeping on the heels of those hopeful beliefs is the same doubt, the same warning, the same trepidation I have been warring with for weeks now since I first laid eyes on Esme.

My fingers once again find a cautionary tune. My jaw ticks. Bitterness fuels a fire in my veins. My heart that was moments ago feeling light and hopeful returns to blackened and cursed as the truth overtakes me. As I succumb to the knowledge that dreaming, wishing, hoping, praying, won’t change anything.

I sense I’m being watched, but don’t stop playing, needing the cathartic release music once upon a time gave me. I meld the two tunes together, the dark with the light. As they fill the room, the melody breathes false life to a future that will never exist.

But for a few promising seconds, I drown in the mythical tune. A heart song that bleeds for a life I’ll never have. Knowing so, my fingers trail off into a dire song once again as my playing slows and finally stops.

Footsteps sound behind me, but I don’t turn from the keys. I sit for a moment, feeling lifeless. Departed. Damned more than I ever have before in my immortal existence.

“That was beautiful,” my mother says. “A masterpiece that will one day become a classic when you teach it to Frédéric Chopin.”

My mother’s visions of the future are never wrong. It doesn’t bother me when she tells me this piece will not become world-renowned as my own, but some other composers because I’ve never played with the intent to ever become famous. I do so because music soothes me. Calms me. Grounds my feelings, my emotions.

Right now, I need the distraction. The mindlessness. The familiar feeling of my fingers gliding over the keys so I can ignore the feelings, the hunger, the craving that’s growing for a woman I have no business desiring. My fingers graze the tops of the ivory one last time, rooting me to the truth I’m worried I’m becoming too blind to see.

Cravings grow the longer you feed into their tempting allure. Though I may lie to myself and think I can deny her, I know it’s possible my insatiable yearning for Esme will never die.

When I don’t respond, only continue to stare down at the piano, my mother asks, “What is it called?”

“It’s a piano sonata,” I mumble, not looking up. “No. 2. In B Flat Minor.”

“It’ll change the world someday.”

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