Art requires sacrifice.
This has always been the case.
As long as we have made art, we have lost something to the art.
Be it time, loved ones or life.
The more you pay, the more memorable you will be.
This was true of the grand piano found at the scene of a murder.
The house was miles away from town, known as dump.
Teenagers would dare each other to stay the night, none of them ever did.
Well, except for the unlucky one found in a pool of blood.
The newspapers claimed he had been holding a sheet of music that he’d
sold his soul for, of course the police said nothing.
They said it was the greatest overture to have ever been written though
without proof, who could say for sure.
The house had called to him.
It knew him, who he was and what he wanted.
He was offered a deal.
For a price, of course.
His blood.
Foolishly he agreed and sat down to play his masterpiece, blank manuscripts sat
Waiting for him to begin and fill them with notes.
His hands flew over the keys and glided up and down scales, music flowing
through the air.
It seemed like he’d been laying for an eternity and he felt he could play forever.
Shame he made such a vague promise.
The notes began to fail him as his hands grew numb.
Looking down he saw his blood coating the old keys.
He tried to stand up but he lacked the strength.
As his vision faded he heard his masterpiece playing once more.
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