This is a pianist-oriented spoof of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart". Many thanks and apologies to the author.
TRUE! –jittery – a very jittery, restless knee I have and
always will have; but what makes you suggest I am mad? Indeed, my senses are heightened; my hearing
has become even more acute. I can single
out the pitch of any voice in a choir, and recall perfectly the notes of a melody
learned years ago. I have heard sounds straight from heaven, and
many, many sounds from hell. So how can
you say I am mad? Perhaps you need to
hear my tale from the beginning, and you will understand. You see, in the beginning it was that . . .
Snap . . . Snap . . . Snap.
I gritted my teeth at the damnable sound, flinching as it
grated on my brain and echoed ‘round the choir room. My focus narrowed until
all I was conscious of was the music in front of me and the source of the
sound: the old man. Tall and pale, his
arms moved with a fluid musicality, as any conductor’s should. My acute senses
missed nothing – my eyes fastened onto every move of his arms and head, reading
nuances in gestures of the fingers and wrists.
The facial expressions, the posture, all broadcast his every musical wish
– and yet still he would . . . snap. A
bark of laughter escaped my lips –not of joy.
It was at the audacity of the sound, at the diabolical torture I was
undergoing, at how badly I wanted to stop playing, or beg him to stop making
that noise. But alas, it is not my place.
I continued to play, my pride in my
skills brushed aside and bruised with each.
Additional. Snap.
And yet, I loved this man, the conductor. He was a kind coworker, competent and
prepared. But I detested his hand - his
large, bone-thin hand, which produced a chilling, hollow ‘snap’. My need for its silence had become an itching
undercurrent of our every encounter.
You must understand – the conductor’s arms are meant to be
silent tools, capable of expressing musicality with precision and artistry. It is well known that a pianist will pride
himself on following a conductor, pride himself on DOING HIS JOB. Ah, I apologize if that outburst seemed
angry, because I am not angry, not at all . . . angry. Nor am I insane, see how
calmly I can relate this information; see how clearly I am to be understood?
As rehearsal continued, each snap seemed to goad my heart
faster. I inhaled and exhaled carefully, so as to control it’s pounding. I
attempted to distract myself, ‘what shall I eat for my next meal?’, ‘the altos
are nowhere near the right note’, ‘what an awful place to put a page turn’. But my attempts failed, and my skin heated as
I played an interlude, accompanied by snapping. “Truly?”, I wanted to ask. “You
believe I cannot handle four measures without your time keeping?”
When the sound stopped, I felt capable of breathing again. My shoulders would relax, my jaw unclench - but
not for long. The moments of reprieve were
always brief, and the snap would return, seemingly louder. I pulled my lips back into a wild approximation
of a smile, a grimace I hoped nobody would notice. The choir members had no idea what was
transpiring in my mind, nor should they.
If they knew . . .
I was nearing a frenzied state - I needed to leave
soon. It was fortunate the clock was
nearing the hour, and rehearsal winding down. But then the old man decided there was enough
time for one last run through. Most of
the song was blessedly free of that abominable snap - until a slightly
misplaced finger hit an errant note. Immediately,
his blasted fingers began anew! My rage blazed
into an inferno, and I could hardly hear anything else. I knew then what needed to be done: I vowed to
end his life forever.
Now this is important: you think I am insane – and yet look how
cleverly I proceeded -- with what caution -- with what foresight! My coworker and I were always on good terms,
but the week before his death I strove to be the most congenial, the most sane.
I carefully orchestrated our
interactions– I showed no rage, even when those wretched snaps drove me beyond
reason. No one would suspect my motivation
sprung from so deep a well of fury. My
hands itched to throttle him. Pressing
my fingers into the keyboard, I took my feeling of annoyance, the hatred of the
hand and used it to fuel my playing. I
pushed my fingers into the keys, pushing, pouring all of my rage into an
expressive accompaniment, while I imagined the joy of crushing him. Soon it was more than the snap – it was
everything – his voice, his occasional curtness would birth an irritation of a
proportion I have never felt before or since.
His pet turns of phrases twisted my gullet. I knew it had to be soon.
My attention to detail was exquisite: each day before rehearsal
I would carefully sharpen a pencil, gripping it ever so lightly (not as a weapon),
then carefully raised and lowered the piano lid (no wish to slam) and I listened
carefully to every instruction. I gently
moved the bench, even so softly used the pedals one would think I imagined I
were afraid to break it! And every day that hand snapped again and again, so
loud I imagined I may come to harm if it continued any longer.
Then the day came – and I was more than unusually cautious
in my interactions with him. I waited
long after rehearsal, calmly biding my time until every last person left the
room. I eyed a mirror on the wall, wishing
it were in shards – but no matter. I had
brought my own tools for the job at hand.
Calmly, I asked him if he had a second to listen to something I wanted
to play for him. “Of course”, he said
and sat in the chair I had set out for him, as I encouraged, “Why don’t you
close your eyes”. With a quiet sigh, he settled
into a chair that gave a small creak of protest.
Never before that moment had I felt the extent of my own ability
--of how clever I was. I could scarcely contain my feelings of glee. To think
that there I was, seconds from revealing my weapon, and he not even to dream of
my secret deeds or thoughts. I almost giggled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he
shifted in his chair suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew
back --but no. Because at that moment I
caught sight of his hands – the thin, spider-like digits that I focused on as
if by instinct. It increased my fury, reinforcing
the inner knowledge that it had to be now – the old man’s hour had come!
With a quiet need, I carefully unsheathed a machete I had
spent hours sharpening to a lethal edge.
I took advantage of his trusting inattention, and wielded my weapon in a
well-practiced strike, severing his head from the rest of his body in an
instant. It thumped on the ground once,
rolled over and then lay still. I
smiled, pleased to find the deed so easily done – because now he was dead,
stone dead. He would trouble me no
more. But I had just gotten started - every imagined
hour of violence was gloried in at that moment, as I hacked and rehacked the
old man’s body into small, disposable parts.
You cannot imagine me mad after hearing the wise precautions
I took for the concealment of the body. I
worked hastily, but in silence - when I was finished, his bloody, dismembered carcass
lay on the floor. As I had worked, his hand continued to twitch,
to produce its bone-chilling ‘snap’ - but the task at hand was so enjoyable
that I didn’t care. I then took a common
plastic container, like every other storage box in the room and deposited the
body. I then placed it in the center of
the storage area - so cunningly, that no one would know it was hidden in plain
sight! There was nothing to wash out, no
stains nor spots. I had been too careful
- a bin had caught all - ha!
One day later, three men visited the workplace - police
officers. The old man has been reported
missing, and the officers had been investigating the premises he was reported
to have been seen last. I smiled, - for
what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen
welcome. The old man, I mentioned, was on
vacation. I took my visitors all over
the facility. I even led them to the
rehearsal hall, brought chairs into the room and offered them coffee. So confident was I in my deception, that I placed
my own seat directly in front of the box that housed the corpse of the victim.
The officers suspected nothing; I had passed their test,
apparently, and they ceased to tread me as a suspect. I felt confident in my ruse, and chatted with
the officers as they idled in their chairs, savoring their coffee. But, ere long, my head began to ache and I
felt myself going pale. The officers
were oblivious to my distress, and I chatted louder to defy the ringing in my
ears that grew more and more distinct – until, at length, I realized: the noise
was not from within my ears.
I am sure I grew paler yet – but I spoke more fluently, more
loudly as the sound increased. What
could I do? It was a low, hollow sound –
much as a drum makes when stuffed with cotton.
I inhaled desperately – and yet the officers didn’t notice. I spoke more quickly, more erratically; but
the sound continued! My jittery knee
moved at a heightened pace, spurred on by arguments of trifles, until I arose
and began pacing. Why are they still
here? I paced with heavy strides, unable
to contain my agitation, as the noise steadily increased.
Oh God! what could I do? I shivered --I raved --I swore! I swung my chair, grating it upon the boards,
but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder
-- louder! And still the men chatted easily, and smiled. Could they hear it? Almighty God! -- no, no!
They heard! --they knew! -- they were mocking me! Anything was better than this
agony, this derision! I couldn’t stand
those hypocritical smiles anymore! I felt that I must scream or die! God, no
-- again! – hear it! louder! louder! louder! louder!
"Bastards!" I shrieked, "Stop torturing me! I
admit it! --tear open the box! here, here! --It is the snapping of his hideous
hand!"
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