• The Dance of Infinity

    ~ * * * ~

    Consider the music box, a small and insubstantial device to be given on an elderly relative’s birthday, the small dancers in the center jerkily dancing to a small mouse like imitation of a well known song, and they are put onto mantelpieces never to be played again. What would you believe if I were to say that the universe was but this? That the Universe generated a tune so fine our pitiful human ears could not pick it up, and that in the centre of it, the center of our universe, were a pair of dancers? So beautiful and pure that to us they would appear as two bright and vibrant stars, as they danced their dance, their dance of infinity. They would twist around each other, moving in fluid motions, forever, until the end of time and beyond. This is a tale about a simple man who’s soul was in tune with this dance, and who needed the music to go on, the dance was his blood, and the music his soul.

    This is the tale, of William Spencer.

    ~ * * * ~

    William didn’t work in a studio, he wasn’t in a band or an orchestra, he wasn’t even a street performer; he was just a simple if somewhat plain middle-aged man. He wasn’t particularly good looking, his brown and mud coloured hair was thinning on top, his empty and lusterless eyes were a dull and unremarkable blue, he was around 5’7”, and had the appearance of a man who had once been thin but then found out that metabolism didn’t last for ever. Everyday he caught the first bus to Manchester, where he would go about his work in the minor accounting agency Rosenberg McGill and Godfree, where he was a minor ‘Bean Counter’, as they were nicknamed, he handled the smaller and less important clients, such as local shop owners. But the most striking thing of all, behind his haggard and lined face was a heart full of passion and mystique, a heart yearning for something more, something… better, if you will.

    It was yet another ordinary day, William took the first bus and sat in his usual spot, reading a copy of the Manchester Times, a newspaper that had lost its edge in recent years, and that’s just how William liked it. Such thrilling titles as Badger Sighting in Market was available for his examination, but one little piece caught his eye. It was a very small and unsubstantial advert in the bottom left corner, barely visible apart from to someone looking for it, and even if William didn’t know it at the time, he had been.

    “Used Piano for Sale! Come to 111 Maple Avenue, Stockport for inquiries!”

    This small advert peaked William’s interest, but commonsense stopped him like it always had done, right before he did something interesting with his life. He was but a simple Accountant, he couldn’t afford this luxury, and it probably wouldn’t fit into his tiny house, he couldn’t even get it through the door he imagined! And what would his Wife have to say about it? What she always said, “You are USELESS Will, you can barely put a roof over our heads, and not to mention the children!” then he would say, “What about the children? The non-existent ones?” and then she would scream her shrill voice to its limits, shouting “That’s not MY fault is it Mr. Sterility!?” and then she would go to stay at her mothers. It was a familiar dance and it all tied into William’s routine, in some ways he hated his wife to the point of wanting to cut her open in her sleep, but he always restrained himself and used his usual outlet, biting himself. It was close to cutting like the teenagers of nowadays but without the evidence, within a few hours the marks cleared up, even when they drew blood.

    And this my friends is a foreboding sign of the future, I shan’t reveal what will happen but let me just say that it will be a very bloody and pretty much happy end to this tale.

    ~ * * * ~

    William returned home for the day, his body slumped and desolate after the day’s labours, he dropped his briefcase just inside the door and flung his coat in the general direction of the coat hanger. He stumbled into the living room, after riding on the bus and spending the entire day sitting down behind a desk he found that his legs would often fail him, he quickly half-fell half-sat into his favourite chair by the window and watched outside, the delicate sound of birdsong soothing him; if just for a moment. His wife was out at her mother’s house, the old bat was determined to fill his wife with bile against him before she would face him this evening, ready with fresh insults and derogative remarks about his job and disorder.

    Several hours past, simply watching outside, the birds now gone and replaced by the gentle chirping of the crickets, singing to each other, their music was not the most beautiful thing in existence but it deserved to be admired like every other piece of music in the world. It was strange and for a while William hadn’t realized it was just him who felt it, but Music was like the gift from the gods to him. The gentle interplay of notes let you delve into a new world, the Artists soul. He wasn’t talking about the loud guitar solo’s and drum fills of this generation, but the old music, when a composer and an orchestra started to become one too make the great creature of the song you could feel it, it made your blood boil and your soul sing along to the heavens.

    At the exact stroke of 9pm his Wife marched into the house, regarding him with a slight yet bitter contempt, ready to unleash upon him the poison tipped insults she had been preparing like a spotty young student preparing for the final examination. She ventured up the stairs without a word, undoubtedly for when he was at his weakest and he wouldn’t fight back too much, she was like a Viper, toying with her prey until it could take no more, and then striking with a single snap of its iron jaw. He sighed jadedly, and stood up, walking into the barren and grubby kitchen, there was a set of plastic furniture in the corner, two seats and a depressingly small table, a long and straight counter with a stove and a washing machine in it. It wasn’t like they needed the stove, his wife used only the microwave and THAT was usually for her.

    He put the kettle onto the stove, lit it up and then sat on the smaller of the two chairs which was uncomfortably close to the wall. He waited for several minutes until the loud and probably unnecessary shrill scream indicated that it was done; he quickly took it off the stove and cursed loudly as he realized that the disadvantage of a kettle with an iron handle is it gets very very hot immediately after being boiled. He dropped it onto the counter and quickly ran his hand under cold water in the nearby sink, cussing the sky blue. He waited for a minute, and then cautiously picked up the kettle, relieved to find that it had stopped being so ludicrously hot and had settled into a quiet stage of only slightly skin-melting temperatures.

    He poured the boiling water into his favourite mug, it was a simple white one with the slogan “You don’t have to be mad too work here but it helps!!!” he subconsciously added the comma between “here” and “but” and also subconsciously erased the exclamation marks, it was a pitiful and desperate stab in the dark at humour and it depressed him to the point of smashing the damn thing. He poured but a dab of milk into the mug, it slowly blended with the boiling water, satisfied he moved on. He removed one of the many teabags from the tin and dropped it into the mug, stirring it until the water started to turn a light shade of teal, and then stirring a while longer until it became darker. Satisfied he scooped up the teabag with his spoon and threw it into the small compartment by the sink. He reached for the sugar and chuckled to himself, “Always out of bloody sugar…” He muttered to himself, “The b***h queen needs it for whatever witch-craft she gets up to in here…” He sighed and drank the revolting tea; the lack of sugar taunting him about his general life, which he felt was also devoid of sugar.

    ~ * * *~

    He shuddered when he finished it and that horrid but inevitable small lump of unblended tea sank down his throat, he carefully washed the mug and put it back on the rather out of place wooden mug-tree, stolen- I mean, ‘Liberated’ from his dead Aunt’s house, as per the request of his dearly beloved. He looked at himself in the groggy and dirt covered window, his reflection barely audible from the grime and stains. “What happened to you?” He asked himself, looking at himself in disgust, what was he now? A simple bean counter with a venomous wife who looked like the woman from Murder She Wrote, he was nothing! He slammed his hand on the counter and bit his left hand, the pain shooting up his arm but fading into satisfaction. He took his mouth away from the hand to see it bleeding slightly, cursing he dabbed it with a flannel and put a plaster on the part that drew blood, he had done this a million times before, he doubted his loyal little house-wife would even notice.

    He walked up the creaky and old stairs and took his usual left corner to the bedroom; it was the only clean place in the house. There was the bed which SHE had chosen, a massive wardrobe filled with her clothes whilst his were thrown into a basket in the corner, a small desk with a large make-up mirror on it, and two bedside cabinets, on each side of the bed. She was sitting at the make-up mirror, slowly and carefully removing her make-up. She stuck her tongue out slightly whilst removing the eye-liner, a trait of women everywhere and one found incredibly annoying, then again there wasn’t much about his wife that he didn’t find annoying.

    He could smell his Wife’s horrible and foreboding perfume, usually picked up from the local £1 store, it said on the bottle it smelled of Lilac, but in reality it smelled of something from a field but it probably wasn’t Lilac at all. He sighed and closed his eyes, imaging Beethoven’s 9th Symphony in D Minor, a well known and well loved song by him, he didn’t dare play it in the house or anyone for fear his wife may hear it and mock him for his affinity for music, she could mock the sun for being bright and the sky for being beautiful, so she had no trouble with a push-over like him.

    He listened to the wonderful notes and tones that chimed in his head, filling his soul with the joy he had been desperately craving all of his life, only when he heard music was he truly at peace. His wife was talking, he didn’t care; he simply drowned her out with the beautiful sound of the music, each single ivory note of the piano striking a chord with his soul, if you will. He felt a small burst of pain in his head and realized that his wife had thrown one of her shoes at him; he turned around wearily “Hmmmm?” He asked, sighing internally.
    “I SAID” He shrilled, getting ready for an Anti-William rant. “That-“ She was cut off by the sound of the phone ringing.
    “Don’t worry dear I’ll get it.” William said hurriedly, rushing out of the room.

    ~ * * * ~

    “Hello?” He asked, picking up the large and beige phone on the wall, he had BEGGED her for a phone that sat on a table to be more old-fashioned, but she thought that a phone on the wall was the way of the future, she also said that about The Beatles, thinking that they were just on hiatus for a very long time. “Hello, is this William?” The voice asked, it was a rather uptight and composed voice, one of a person forced to interact with the upper class in all of its spare time, and be as polite as possible. “Yes, this is William, who is currently speaking?” He asked wearily, knowing that this was just a delay for the ear-full he was going to get from his wife. “I believe you were inquiring about the Piano?” The voice asked primly, avoiding the last asked question with icy forgetfulness. “I don’t know what you’re...” He began, pinching the bridge of his nose as he exhaled, but the breath caught in his throat, “I think you have a wrong number.” He hung up, the disconnected sound ringing in his ears for the briefest of seconds.

    It’s a sign! William thought, heading back up to the bedroom. He sighed deeply as he saw his wife lying in bed with the covers folded neatly over her, she was wearing the full body nightgown that looked like it were made for work in Chernobyl more than an article of clothing in which to sleep. She had her hands neatly on her stomach, gripping each other into a joint fist. “Now that you are likely to listen to me, shall we have a nice little chat?” She asked coldly, her usual empty stare making William weep internally. “Of course dear, what about?” He asked, sitting on the side of the bed, holding his face in his hands as she started to trill all of his little imperfections, Beethoven’s 9th Symphony in D Minor the only thing between him and throttling the evil cow.
    ~ * * *~

    And it’s at this point in the tale, my dear readers, when I must take a second to confirm one thing with you. This tale, I am very afraid to say isn’t going to have a happy ending, as it is with life no matter how good it gets the guarantee of it staying that way is always slim as one of those tarts trouncing up and down the runway. Life is a cruel mistress; she can take you to the hint of ecstasy, and leave you screaming for more as she throws you into the gutter, such is the way. If you let it get to you, then you can become just another little ant in the massive ant-farm of the World, insignificant and easily burnt with a magnifying glass.

    William straightened his tie, and carefully slammed the knocker against the wood of the tastelessly green door. He waited for several minutes in the small and mostly dead garden, filled with plastic bags and discarded lager cans, the stench of decay overpowering the smell of the rather small and feeble lilacs in the window box. This was one of those dreadfully quiet streets; so far away from the main road that it seemed like all life had been drained from it when the milk van left every morning. The gently fall of rain, more mist than anything, unpleasantly slid down his pale and rough skin. After another minute or so the door was answered by a young woman of at least twenty, he understood now with a grimace, this was a student housing, he crossed himself and smiled fakely.

    It was a rather pretty young woman, even though she had clearly just gotten out of bed, her lack of make-up just made her seem more natural with her perfectly rounded face, and her delectable figure, he stopped himself from ogling like a fool and noticed that her nightgown was in fact a shirt around two sizes too big for her, it reached down to her knees. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?” He asked, even in the face of the painfully obvious evidence. “Yeah, why’re you knocking on my door at THIS time?” She asked, yawning slightly, shivering due to the cold. “This time? Three o’clock in the afternoon?” He asked, slightly taken aback. “Oh, my alarm clock must be broken again. Come in.” She said, intentionally not looking at the smashed alarm clock in the front of the garden.