Nails

[TW: Suicide]

Have you ever watched someone die? 

It happened last fall when I first enrolled in the music school. I saw him every single weekend there. He was impossible to miss: as his music was absolutely, always, unforgettable. It was as though every time he touched the keys, he caressed the very soul of the music the original musician had written. He always performed in a way that imprinted his prideful yet solemn melodies through his long and slender fingers on the ivory keys, which seemed to shape its careful mold around his very fingertips. When he stood on the stage, next to that shiny black Steinway, I felt as though he were an epitome that I could possibly never reach. 

Once, I tried to repeat his beautiful playing style when I thought I was alone. I found a practice room in the very deep, dark corner of the hallway on the fourth floor, where I could faintly hear the incessant playing of other musicians from other rooms. Awkwardly, I brushed my fingers across the keys. They seemed to cringe under my touch. Slowly, I began to play the same song I had heard him play earlier. It felt as though I was a child playing dress-up. My stubby little fingers could never mimic the same impact as his extremely deep and inspiring passion. Feeling uncomfortable, I hastily shrugged and closed my books, and rushed out the door.

And that’s when I saw him standing there with a look of surprise. “Hello,” he nodded with a forced smile. “That was very impressive.”

I smiled back and said “Thank you,” then I hesitantly added, “You played at the concert earlier today, right? You were really good.”

He laughed nonchalantly and smiled with an unreadable expression “Thanks, but your version was far better than mine.” 

“No,” I denied his statement quickly. “I wanted to play this piece after hearing your version.” 

He chuckled again, with bated breath “A lot of kids here play like me,” then he thoughtfully added, “The longer you stay here, the more you’ll play like me too.”

We nodded politely at one another and parted ways.

Months later, I encountered him again. He was on his phone, in the very same practice room that I had been in before. He was turned away, and crying quiet, uncontrollable sobs, gripping the edge of the small window above the rumbling AC. I could not hear a word. Not even a sound. I could feel his misery from the scraping of his nails on the metal. It was intense and beautiful, as though he were performing again on the magnificent stage. I could imagine him again, standing up on that golden lit platform, eyes smiling and lit with passion for his craft, the crisp edges of his suit folding ever so delicately as he bent his arms. I could imagine his sweat perspiring as he treated each note with careful patience and fragility for hours, making sure each thing he played was worked to perfection. The flipping of the used yellowed pages of his music sheets, the squeaking of the old chairs, the ornamentations placed with infinite care. I watched him with a sympathy unique to only artists and musicians and felt a strange sense of comfort. His quiet sobs carried on...

I once sat near him in the cafeteria. He was to the right of me, chatting with some other incredible people that smiled with an intangible passion and maturity. Could they have witnessed his quiet sobs from before? No, it seemed I was his only witness. His eyes flickered dimly, and he robotically recited his exciting future plans for music and performances. 

He got up and left long before me, and the cafeteria was empty. Suddenly I noticed his bright red phone leftover where he was sitting before. A call from an unknown number rang incessantly. It vibrated the entire peeling metal bench and sang its eerily cheerful tone. It seemed to ring the bells of death, and I could not bear to answer it. The cheerful tune was ominous and repressive in the silent and empty cafeteria.

The last time I saw him play, he was playing Chopin's Ballade in G minor. He sat on that creaking wooden stool, face contorting with sudden and intense distaste, and scratched his arms tentatively. He carefully checked that there were no onlookers; he didn't notice, but I was the only witness. He carefully set his fingers down, and the first low C octave came crashing down like a waterfall, shocking me into his reality. I heard every single note with crisp clarity, without even an ounce of hesitation. Each movement of his fingers felt heavy like he was dancing underwater. The mesh of sheepskin, pine, and copper, groaned and creaked under the weight of his burdens and sorrows. The notes blended together, in a murky storm, and as though he were screaming, he played the waterfall of notes and I could not distinguish one piece of thought from another. He poured himself more and more into the instrument and the piece until he had nothing left of him: simply, he had become the very instrument itself, and together, ingrained into the fine ivory, he began to drown in his own melancholy, his fear, his anger, his true passion. Unlike on the golden lit stage, his nails were scraping desperately at the keys, as if he were begging for forgiveness.

He never finished the piece, just let it climax, before pausing, packed his bags in a sudden rush, and ran out the door.

When I saw him for the final time, it was already too late.

I could hear the oppressive droning of AC, the low classical music accompanied by the old and dim lights of the practice room. He seemed to breathe with honest intent, the quiet ragged breathing muffled by the strange and sticky liquid that foamed from his eyes and mouth. His face paled and matched the color of the room. The foreign bottles rolled under the metal chairs, which were now out of reach under the giant grand piano. The room reeked of sour sweat and spit from trombones and mothballs. His eyes were so fixated on the popcorn ceiling above, they did not move, even when my knees gave in and my lungs forced out a gasp.

I scrambled over to him, and he finally, with the straining effort of his remaining life, looked his terrifying, bleak, and dark pupils at mine. His body suddenly shook quietly and uncontrollably. He seemed to be shrinking into his clothes, the tiny practice room perfectly at home with his quiet, yet intense suffering. 

Shakily, he mouthed words at me, but I could not understand. I was shocked, as I for some reason, expected his mouth to be unmoving. It was as though I could feel sand quickly shifting under me, but I was unsure of what to do. I shook his shoulders frantically, feeling as though his bones and muscles and neck were sticking out from all the wrong places. His bony fingers seemed to elongate and clutch desperately onto my clothes. They were warmer than anything I had ever felt before, bolting me with the incredible vibrance, and I could feel his nails digging sharply into my skin.

Under him, liquid pooled and reflected the reflection of the sky and the piano and sad little room. It flowed gently over and under both him and me, melting into a smooth and pearly shade that was as pretty as the moon. 

Or possibly even prettier than it. The moon waned. It cried jealous tears and spilled its gentle light over his face, which was a ghastly pale texture. His eyes were animate, silver liquid gathering across the brims of his lashes like twinkling bells, and his eyebrows raised ever so slightly. I dug for my phone in a frenzied, violent, panic, and begged for anybody, anything, anyone at all. But the moment I looked back, his eyes were frozen like an empty, black mirror, or vessel, and I could only see myself in the room. 

The fall meant the end, and the especially dark and starry skies flooded through the open windows. When the sculpted ivory of his complexion stopped shifting, I stared at his body, which was unmoving, and felt his hands loosen grip. To me, he was still digging his nails into the piano keys, replaying his grieving memories, like a broken disc or radio.

At some point, I lost sight of fall, of winter, of spring, of summer, and it had become fall again. I loved the fall, because it reminds me of his exquisitely unforgettable playing. In my heart, I still imagined him shining on the stage, radiant as ever, playing in that special way of his that could imprint into our memories.