Ruined

Leland slumped looking at his hands. He could still hear each of the sour notes that they had drawn forth from the baby grand piano, the horrid music--no it wasn't music but noise!--hanging around, permeating the air like the stench of vinegar. What a travesty! No, not a travesty but a tragedy, for his genius had been murdered. All that remained was this hollow music-less shell.

How could his own body betray him so. He wiggled his fingers and they obeyed him with a dexterity that they had not shown on the keys. All the parts were there: eight fingers and two thumbs, but something was missing. Not only had his natural talent dried up but so had years of lessons and practice. He raised his hands to try again and then stopped, afraid.

If he wasn't a pianist then what was he? Music had been his life!

Lashing out, he struck the keys with a balled fist. The resulting noise sounded like a groan of pain. With a crazed howl, he hit them again and again until the black and white keys were speckled with his blood.