JOY

Fifteen Years Old

The neighbourhood was much like any other in the suburbs of London: straight-backed terraced houses, tall and narrow, abrupt faces, neat gardens, iron gates – closed now. Curtains were drawn and windows glowed against the darkness outside. It was quiet – only the distant jangle of traffic, footsteps carrying someone home, a dog barking, the whisper of trees in the wind – but one house was quieter than all the others.

Silent.

A silence so deep and still it went unnoticed, just like the house itself. Nobody turned to it as they walked by. The house was but a passing shiver – not a stone out of place on its gravel pathway, its porch primly adorned with hanging baskets, its white front door closed to the world beyond. Nothing stirred. Even the wind seemed to die at the door.

Not a sound could be heard from beyond its walls and yet inside, in the living room, a piano was playing of its own accord – the melody so fragile and heart-achingly beautiful it seemed to be made of silence itself. It fluttered against the windows but, not being able to escape, turned in on itself, disappearing into the emptiness between each note.

Seated in an armchair, a woman drifted her hands along to the music. Upon the floor, a girl had her eyes closed as if lost in it entirely, but her hand was clenched around a piece of knotted cord. She could not listen to the music. She could hear it, but she could not listen to it. Her knuckles were white.

The music slowed and a single note rang out, like a bell, pure and true and full of feeling.

The girl could take it no longer. She let a little of the sound through her defences, breathing in the joy of it. She gasped as the music began to fill her lungs. She grabbed at her throat, trying to breathe, but the air was too thick, too heavy with music – drowning her.

The woman’s hands continued to flutter through the air.

The girl pulled one of the knots in her cord tighter. Tighter. She tried to wade against the panic, removing the music from her body, her mind. She pulled the knot so tight her fingers screamed. The joy in her heart silenced itself abruptly. The music washed against her but went no deeper. She took a tentative breath—

Relieved only for a second, she quickly tightened her eyes, clenched the cord and hardened herself. The song continued, beautiful no more, just a sound, an interesting arrangement of vibrations in the air. Not music.

It grew dark outside. The girl drowned again, and again, and again. Eventually the woman ceased to move her hands. The music stopped.

‘Magic is the first sin; we must bear it silently,’ said the woman, making the disappointment in her voice plainly heard.

‘Magic is the first sin; we must bear it silently,’ the girl responded.

‘Go to bed, Anna.’

The girl was too tired to reply. She stood up, kissed her aunt goodnight on a cold, turned-away cheek and went upstairs.

The woman continued to sit in the armchair, thoughts turning slowly and heavy as the wheel of a mill. Soon it would be the girl’s birthday. Would she be ready when the time came? She had to be ready. She moved her hands in the air and the piano began again.

She was pleased to find nothing but silence in her heart.