silence speaks.— [grimsby/amelia]

🦓

Before I learned to play the piano, I never understood the concept of guilty pleasures. In Panem, there can be so little to be happy about. So why feel guilty if there's even one thing that makes this Hell on Earth even slightly more tolerable? Even if the rain drowns out the bugs, why should I apologise for how nice it feels on my skin? Even if the sun can dry up the grass, it won't stop me from enjoying the feeling of warmth it brings me. But, then one day I decided to play the piano.

Before I was forced here, I doubt the piano was ever used. A grand piano, beautifully made, just sitting there to collect dust. Though even back then, I was sixteen at the time, I didn't have to question why Mort owned it. He owned it for the same reason he owned his home and his furnishing and his decor and he owned me. He liked the aesthetic of it. So much of this mans life revolved around aesthetic and it was something I could never understand. Was I supposed to like it because I just so happened to fit into the aesthetic? If anything, it made me dislike it more. It reinforced the fact that to him, that to Amelia, that to this whole damned country I'm not a person anymore. I'm just an object, a decoration, a piece of property for him to throw away when he's done with me.

But, despite me hating the aesthetics of it all, the piano still caught my attention. I had never had the chance to try music back home in Eight. I thought about it, but why would my bastard of an uncle spend all that money on me? The nephew he got stuck with. The nephew who killed him. I knew better than to even ask him or express my interest in music to him. And I guess part of it was I had no reason to want to try music. After all, I had a way to express myself. I could speak my mind, I could tell people what I wanted and how I felt. Though now it's been so long I'm starting to question if even I understand how I feel anymore.

One day when the house was empty, Amelia and Mort were out, I decided to wipe the dust off of the piano keys. And then, out of pure curiosity, I hit a key. Just one single key. I think the reason I fell in love was because of the fact I finally made a sound. I could hardly scream with my damaged vocal chords, even without my tongue being cut off. So the fact I finally could make sounds again felt cathartic in a way. And then, I sat on the bench and ran my hands over the keys. Slowly, I taught myself to play. And now, when I play, I feel like my voice is back.

The guilt stems from the fact that the only reason I have this voice is because mine was stripped away. The only reason I have access to such a beautiful instrument is because some rich fucker wanted a new toy in the shape of a human being. The only reason I can do what I love is because I was labeled a traitor and a murderer as a teenager. Because they refused to listen when I had a voice and called out for help. It makes me hate it just as much as I love it.

And today, I was playing it. Often times I don't use sheet music anymore. Sheet music feels like someone else's voice. And I'm so tired of other people speaking on my behalf. If I'm going to speak, it will be with my own voice. The voice I fought for, the voice I killed for, the voice I died inside for. That's what this does to you. Everyday, being an avox kills you a little bit more. Even if they can never fully break you, no amount of willpower will stop the emptiness that comes with it.

"Grimsby! Help me with these scripts, I am terribly overwhelmed!"

And just like that, my fingers stopped playing and my voice was gone. Amelia was something else I had mixed feelings about. Part of me almost saw her as a sister in a way, after all many of our teen years were spent together. But, I knew that was the loneliness and possible Stockholm Syndrome speaking. She was no better than Mort. To them I wasn't even a human being, how could I be family? Though, she didn't see me as an object like Mort did. She almost saw me as a pet of sorts. And I wasn't sure which I hated more.

I turned around to face her and rose an eyebrow. Did she somehow forget I can't speak? How exactly am I supposed to help her with her scripts? I wasn't sure if she was just stupid or trying to make a joke. Well, I knew she was stupid but this still could have been a joke regardless of her stupidity. Out of my pocket I got out a small notepad and pen. There were times I had to communicate with Mort and Amelia, so Mort provided me with the means to do so. God forbid they put some effort in and learn sign language. I got up and walked over to her, writing down what I wish I could say.

"What is it you need, Miss Amelia?"

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[ 920 words ]
[ table by rave ]