Not because I'm angry, but because I found one of my stories a few days ago and liked it. Actually, you might call this more of a drabble, because it's quite short. Either way...enjoy?
All is quiet as I climb the stairs, cross the stage, and sit down at the piano. Normally at these recitals my heart pounds, my palms sweat, and my fingers quiver with anticipation and adrenaline and fear – but not today. This is the first recital where I feel none of those emotions, where the piano feels alien to me.
Because today I am angry. And I have never before played the piano when I am upset, for fear of tainting my true love with unholy emotion.
Someone in the audience coughs, and I realize that I have frozen, thinking, onstage. Several restless murmurs comb through the rows of people below me, impatient after only thirty seconds of silence.
And so I am angry at them, too. My music is laid out for me already; some famous piece by Beethoven that I’ve never liked, and that no one will remember in five minutes. My pulse pounds hard and fast in my ears, anger drowning out the hisses from backstage, and in one strong movement I sweep my music off the piano. The five creamy sheets of music flap into the air, and then float, zig-zag, to the ground. Before the last one has landed I take a deep breath, straighten my spine, and bring all ten fingers crashing down on the keys – not hard enough to damage the piano, because even when I feel this way, I cannot bring myself to harm such magnificence. The sound I bring forth holds more than enough force to inspire a startled scream from below.
As the dissonance of my resounding anger dies away, I get to my feet, dip a sarcastic little curtsey towards my audience, and stalk backstage.