Contrary to popular belief, music is not an anti-drug.

I have spent enough time watching over my Girl to be aware of this fact. When she takes in that calm, almost unnatural breath, or her fingertips carefully wander along my side, I can see the ecstasy in her eyes, the notion of joy that she finds nowhere else. I see her feel.

After that first dreg of music, I notice her words making less sense, until she is simply singing to random vowels. But she takes in more and more, until she becomes positively dizzy. She is addicted, and she doesn’t want to stop. And yet when she does, she is calm. If she’s had too much, she wakes up the next day complaining of a headache, or even nausea.

Music is not an anti-drug. Music is a drug in itself.

My Girl is a strange one. Like the rest of them, instead of staying the same like any respectable being, she changes every day. Many years ago, before her own memory, she first touched her fingers to my face. That very first touch was cautious, suspicious, and I responded in the same soft tone.

The second touch was not cautious.

Actually, she smacked me in several different places at once. One really can’t blame me for crying out at this point, considering I had just met this child and she was already beating on me. My Girl’s Mother appeared in a flash, gently placing a protective covering of wood over my skin.

Which only made me lonely. There is no use to a piano that’s never played.

For the next few years, my Girl often found herself in front of me, playing incessantly. Her melodies had no true tunes and my strings were forced into the company of others who they weren’t accustomed to. They glanced longingly at their usual companions, but my Girl was determined to separate friends and unite foes. And time and time again, her Mother would cover me, predictably leaving me vulnerable at a later date. Eventually, my Girl discovered the trick to removing the shield. From then on, her Mother simply told her to quit attacking me. But despite the woman’s exhaustion and the nervousness of my strings, I knew that in my Girl’s ears, the “music” was beautiful.

It was not long before my Girl took piano lessons. Now when she touched me, she struggled to find the notes written in front of her, tiring easily and wanting to revert to her childish improvisation. Still, she forced herself through, and when she came home from her very first recital, she was beaming. I wish she could have used me to perform her first piece.

Years passed, and my Girl steadily grew friendlier with me. Several days, her frustration was extremely evident. She slipped in her exam pieces and sometimes ended a practice session by slapping my face, just as she had so long ago. She couldn’t stand imperfection.

A fair percentage of the time, though, she experienced the drug-like effects of music. She learned to play into the now trusting strings, transferring her soul through me. She made me want to sing, to bear the raw emotions hidden behind her everyday tone. Sometimes she would sing with me. Her voice was better than mine.

Then she left.

I had heard her Mother and Father discussing something called University. It was an unfamiliar concept, but I understood that it was faraway and inevitable for my Girl. Naturally, I assumed she would take me with her. I was gravely disappointed.

For a long time, I laid there, no one to embrace me, no one to whisper the secrets of her heart, no one to let her tears fall on my ivory keys when the music became too real. Her Mother sometimes came along and tapped at my surface, her Father kept me shining and clean, but it was without real heart, and I felt abandoned. I, too, was suffering from withdrawal.

And then Christmas came! A full, green tree stood in my room, dazzling in lights and garland. In another room, I knew, stockings hung over a fireplace, and outside, bright red and green lights would surely be making the house shine. Aside from allowing myself to carry an astonishing number of snowglobes, however, I couldn’t participate in the Christmas joy. And yet my Girl’s Mother was bright-eyed and cheerful as she hadn’t quite been since her daughter had left home.

I was interrupted in my brooding late one night in December by the sound of a key being inserted into a door, the handle being turned. No one was awake. Could there be a burglary tonight? But why would a thief have a key?

The robbers—or rather, robber, as there appeared to be only one—left the light off, kicking his shoes off and leaving them haphazardly at the door. It took all of three seconds for him to trip over them. He swore.

I knew that voice . . .

A light turned on upstairs, and my Girl’s Mother ran out of her room and to the robber’s (shoeless) feet.

“Chelsea!”

I watched in awe as the woman embraced her only daughter. And even though it couldn’t have been earlier than midnight, my Girl made her way over to me and, waking her Father, began to play.

I’d never sung so emotionally in my life.

When my Girl finished her ballad—nothing I’d ever heard before, simply because she’d been making it up, just like she used to—she sighed with me, felt everything I did.

And this time, when she left, my Girl took me with her.

Time continues to pass, and somehow my Girl continues to grow. She has become my Woman, now, found a Man. She has informed me through song that she is going to have her own Girl soon.

I know that my new Girl will be as much of an addict as her Mother.

A/N: This is my slightly more edited entry to a contest at the Muse Bunny, which asked us to tell a story through the point of view of either a sofa, piano, or pair of high heels. As a music geek, the choice was quite clear. I’ve never, however, entered an original fiction contest (I’m a fanfiction writer), so I’m a bit nervous about this. However, listening to Regina Spektor’s fabulous piano accompaniment has definitely helped me through this story.

Thank you for reading.