A/N: Personal narrative that I wrote a very long time ago. I almost decided not to post it but, seeing as I have not been active for quite a while, it seemed rather necessary. . . .

My fingers flew across the keys, picking out the sixteenth notes of Pachelbel's Canon in D; the sweet, flow of the melody reverberated in the stillness of the Choir room as I played onward, my eyelids fluttering while my fingers spun the rejoicing tune.

The Choir room, empty of even the vocal instructor, Ms. Owens, in the mornings, echoed with the sound of my music as I charmed the keys of the old piano. This version of Pachelbel's Canon was difficult to play on the Choir room piano because the D-6 key stuck and one had to use a little staccato to keep such a thing from happening. It could be maddening, especially with such a delicate piece as this, but I was thankful that I had a piano to sue at all as well as permission to play in the mornings before school. I would have been happy to fool around on any piano at all, as long as it kept me from having to sit with what I reluctantly called my "peers" in the gymnasium. Seeing as I had little to no friends, I was generally happiest on my own.

And the music: that was an added bonus.

The song I was currently playing was one that I had grown to love over many days of labor; then, it wasn't commonplace for me to actually practice playing piano, but this piece I enjoyed to such an extent that I could scarce help myself. It was hard to say what was especially charming about it; I didn't like it, at first. Truth be told, I did not really begin to appreciate the piece until I was perfecting it, mostly because it was a major piece. At the time, I was so taken with minor music that I couldn't treasure much else— in fact, I had taken to mutating most of the major music I was assigned, and putting it in a minor key.

I won't lie: the temptation to do so with Pachelbel's Canon was definitely there. Somehow, I knew though, as my playing drew to a close, that I would not bring myself to tarnish its dulcet sweetness. I would leave it, just as it was intended, and spare myself the trouble of putting more oppressive blackness on my hands.

Smiling slightly, I listened carefully to the last of the tender notes fade into silence and fingered the keys contemplatively.

I was never more at peace than when creating music; whether it was composing or playing or just listening, nothing soothed my soul more than music. It was the one way I could connect with myself without having to let manifest any incriminating thoughts; it was also one of the only ways I knew how to communicate with other people without having them think me a freak.

In reference to the latter, however, music was not always at my aid; and it did not always convey itself to my audience in a way I could esteem.

Like now.

Taking a deep breath, I allowed myself to tear my attention away from the piano and glance around the room.

Whereupon I realized that I was not alone.

Straightening, I slowly lifted my chin up and turned my head towards the figure of boy, who standing not ten feet away, watching me.

I had seen this boy before. I knew him to be an eighth-grader, one of the so-called "goths" of my school. He certainly dressed the part, with his long-sleeve black t-shirt, short black shorts, and hide-your-eyes haircut. The charming grin that was twisting his lips, however, was most uncharacteristic.

Catching my eyes, his grin widened.

I scowled slightly.

Turning his head back towards the Choir room door, where I could see several heads poking through curiously, he called (presumably to his friends): "See? I told you it wasn't Ms. Owens." He turned back to me, and waved. "Hi."

I did not reply, but I continued staring (rather incredulously) at him, my face blank for the most part, only a careful amount of irritation showing at the down-turned corners of my mouth. Unfazed by my silence, he ogled me back, smiling the whole while as if waiting for something.

Not in the mood to give him any kind of satisfaction, I raised my eyebrow at the boy; then I proceeded to ignore him completely. Setting my fingers to the keys, I waited patiently for him to leave, keeping my hand poised but not pressing down quite yet.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him turn and shuffle off; his boot-like shoes clunked across the linoleum floor, making their way towards the door.

As if taking some kind of cue from this, my fingers seized a life of their own, and a new music began swelling from the semi-senile piano. I was quite unsurprised to find that my hands had begun picking out a somber tune by Midnight Syndicate called The Blackest Rose. Dark and rather enigmatic, I had picked this song up by ear; its simplicity allowed me some detachment so that I could keep playing (with much gusto), despite the sudden flurry of torrid thoughts assaulting my mind. The music pulsed forth from my fingertips in hard waves that grew in volume as my inexplicable distress mounted.

From across the Choir room, I heard the door open, and a spurt of anger flooded me, causing me to raise my volume further; I was playing fortissimo now, my lips pursed tightly, eyes downcast and glaring at my dancing fingers. . . .

The door closed shut.

Instantly, my anger vanished.

There was a great leap in the music as I unexpectedly went from fortissimo to piano in a single beat. I closed my eyes and tried to console myself; I immersed myself in the dark, soft, soothing music, and held onto the reminder that I was once again alone.

Only in that thought was I able to find some peace.

As the 8:20 bell rang, signaling the start of first hour, I recoiled from the keys. Any moment, students would be filing in through the doors like a swarm of excited bees; what tranquility I had attained would be shattered.

Sighing, I gathered my black backpack, pulled the strap over my shoulder, and strode out of the Choir room.