Sonata in A... Sharp

The piano music has started again. It might be less sinister, if only it weren’t so hauntingly, terribly beautiful.

I’m not sure how much longer I can hang on; I gave up all hope of being rescued at least two days ago, when I still had hands and feet.

He must be a surgeon; he hasn’t used any anesthesia, but he he has kept me alive and aware through each of the amputations. The sick bastard even made me watch as he turned my hands into a pair of white-nailed, pink gloves.

I think he wears them while he plays.

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© 2017 dustygrein