V I O L E T T EXE L I S EXB E A U L I E U
Sunrise, sunset, and midday again. This time, she woke up at one in the afternoon with her little black dress still zipped to her back and a mysterious bruise located on her right elbow. She could hear the screams of children playing on the streets outside, as well as laughter coming from the floor below her.
She had almost forgotten about the crumpled pieces of notebook paper, which were scattered all across the floor and spiraled on top of her linen sheets. The girl had planned on attending the open mic night being held in the hostel bar the night before, but after changing into formal wear and the necklace her grandmother had given her many years ago, she had decided against performing due to a spontaneous moment of inspiration and a lack of extroversion. Getting a song out of her head was far more important than socializing, that was for sure.
Underneath the warm covers, she shifted her body towards the night stand and grabbed her phone. She entered her password and sighed. No emails, no texts, no missed calls.
With all her strength, she touched her bare feet to the carpet and reluctantly started her day. She changed into a striped shirt, a navy blue cardigan and her faded jean shorts that had holes in the back pockets, where pebbles and stolen bank pens used to be hidden. She had worn those shorts on so many occasions; she knew it was only a matter of time before they fell apart, which was disappointing because she didn't have enough money to afford a new pair. A shower was unnecessary, as her hair was still dry and there was a tiny bit of floral perfume still lingering upon her skin. Violette decided she would clean up the mess in her room later, and grabbed her phone, purse, headphones, room key, a pen, and notepad. No shoes; she wouldn't need them where she was going.
Invisible to most of the guests she had observed, there was a dusty grand piano located in one of the many foyers at the Luna Brilla hostel. It sat in an open space where the walls spread apart, the crisp sunlight shined through an open window, and multicolored seats were scattered all around, just waiting to be sat in. The hostel was small and quaint, but it had enough awareness and artistic energy to include a simple place like this. A safe place for Violette. A work space. While all the others considered the esteemed bar their temple, the piano was hers. After all, she was more of a ghost than a guest anyways.
The musician sat down at the bench and decided to check her phone again. No emails, no texts, no missed calls. She chomped on her lips in apprehension, and placed the device upon the top of the piano. After setting the black headphones upon her neck and placing her purse on the ground, she began to lightly tap the keys. She started with one of her own songs, then a piece she had learned in primary school. After that, her fingers improvised a melody until she finally wrote it down in her notepad. She added a few halfhearted lyrics on top of the notes and checked her phone again. No emails, no texts, no missed calls.
She started on another song. Tiny beads of sweat began to drip down her forehead, so her fingers played a slower song. Then a faster song. Back to the song she had learned in primary school. Up the scale, down the scale. She stared into space for a while. Then ten Nina Simone songs. Half of "La Vie en rose". Twenty songs that reminded her of home. Two hours had passed. No emails, no texts, no missed calls.
Now she banged on the keys. Beethoven songs. Grimaud songs. Chopin, Gershwin, even Billy Joel. Her back was aching. Her sanity was slipping. Just one more. And then another. And another. Now two more hours were gone. She checked her phone.
No emails, no texts, no missed calls.
She let out a furious scream, and threw it against the wall, where it made a loud bang that echoed all throughout the hallway for everyone to hear. When it hit the floor, she noticed that there was a crack across the side of the screen. It was a rather large crack, and she couldn't get it fixed because she knew she didn't have the money. She stared at it for a while. The silence vibrated throughout her head, and her cheeks went florid. A gasp. A blink of the eyes. Shaky fingers. An impossible future.
When she finally caught her breath, Violette Beaulieu stared back at the eighty-eight keys and began to play Mozart's Sonata in C. Her stomach was grumbling and her mouth went dry, but she didn't notice. She didn't make any plans for the day, so perhaps she'd spend it starving herself. No one would notice if she just fainted onto the floor right there. After all, she was a more of a ghost than a guest anyways.