gigi, one.

Don't tell a soul about this, but I don't really like playing the piano all that much.

I mean, it's fine, sure. And I'm good at it. I like the diligence of it. I love the praise that comes with completing a piece, standing up from my piano stool to applause - the only time my parents ever really notice me, let alone anyone else. And I like feeling accomplished, like I've mastered something to perfection. But music isn't really a passion. It's pretty, and nice, and it makes other people smile. But I just....

I think I did have a passion, once upon a time. Giggling with delight as I sat on my Grandmother's knees. I like that when I play it reminds me of those times with her, wanting to create something beautiful with my hands like she could. And maybe it's her legacy that has kept me sat behind this grand piano all these years, keeping her alive. I know Father always likes it when I play one of her favourites, filling up our home with gentle background music. But that's what I am, the background noise. Creating it, becoming it, Gigi and her piano.

Nothing more, nothing less.

I broke my pinky finger once when I was nine and my parents wept - not because I was hurt, but because it might have damaged my talents. I didn't shed a tear. Secretly I was a little relieved, a break from it all - but of course Mother insisted I keep up chord practice with my good hand. I had thought those precious six weeks of healing might have given me enough time to discover who I was without the gift, the music, the grand piano. But I was wrong, and I was also nine. Who knows themselves at nine? Let alone thirteen.

Anyway, my pinky survived. Set itself right back into place, the bastard. I can bend it funny now, a party trick mother scolds me for. The kids at school think it's neat enough, but at home it's "unbecoming" to be gruesome. Yet they let Benito compete in those stupid tournaments and I'm to sit on the sidelines being quiet and pretty until called upon, more double-standards than china in the pantry.

I'd like to try and be lethal. Don't think I'd be any good at it, but I'd just like the chance. It's not fair that we're born under the same roof yet aren't on equal ground from birth. I am to be a pretty thing to look at, to listen to. No sharp lines carved up by knives, blush pink - never blood red. But there's no point imagining who I'd be if I had a fighting chance because it's too late now. Those other kids would have me on the ground with a sword to my throat before I could even blink.

Doesn't stop me looking, though. Watching. Good fighting is a lot like good music, structured and precise - a dance as much as a battle. I cheer Benito on, wince when he's thrown to the ground, burst into applause when he lands a good strike. Because that's all I can be in this home. Just another member of the audience. An onlooker, daydreaming out of her window.

Hands poised above the keys, fingers shaking, the silence it brings deafening.