Min Yoongi

I hadn’t meant to do this. To drop this low. To stumble out of the club half-conscious, drunk on my sadness, reeking of drugs I couldn’t bring myself to take. And yet, I was drowning. Nobody had asked me where I was going, the woman I’d pushed off my lap simply moved to the next man, and I knew that the people that I arrived could be bothered less as long as my name had got them in.

, I had no idea where I was. It was dark and the streets were empty, all the storefronts were closed for the night. My vision blurred and I lurched to the ground, feeling as if I could vomit up the liter of overpriced alcohol I’d consumed. Miraculously everything stayed where it should, I pushed myself upright and started off again.

I didn’t know where I was going, I didn’t know why I was going. I remembering exiting the club meaning to get away from the darkness inside the building only to stumble around in the lonely darkness of the night. Something in my pocket buzzed and with a slow hand, I fished my phone out and accepted the call without thinking.

“Hello?” I answered, almost getting caught up with my tongue.

? Where the hell Hyung“
are you, we’ve been trying to reach you all night.”

It was Jeon Jungkook.

Or was it Park Jimin. I couldn’t tell.

“What?” I responded, annoyed. I had no idea why they were calling me, they never called me.

“Where have you been these few months? Come back, we need you back. Everyone has been asking about you, we're all so worried,” Jimin said. Or maybe it was Taehyung. Whoever he was, he sounded surprised that I had picked up. Maybe I shouldn't have picked up.

“For what?” I snapped, getting frustrated. “Who asked for me?”

There was a silence.

“Hyung, where are you? Let me pick you up-” It was definitely Jungkook, I knew it was.

“I’m out. Busy. Let’s talk about this later.” I disconnected the call before they could respond and struggled for a moment with taking my battery out. Shoving all three piece of the phone back into my pocket, I surged forward and with renewed vigor begin down the street again. I don’t know how long I walked, but my feet grew numb with the cold and I couldn’t feel them begin to ache until I spotted the smallest bit of light in the otherwise completely dark street.

I was shivering in the cold, wearing nothing but my ripped jeans and sweatshirt. The warm-toned flow of the light coaxed me forward. It was as if the light could break the alcohol-induced haze I was trapped in. I was drunk beyond my years but I had the distinct feeling the light pulled at me, light a gold thread wrapped around my throat, Beautiful and compelling.

The closer I got, the tighter the thread seemed and it was only until I was standing right in front of the massive glass windows of a storefront, staring inside with one hand braced on the sill to keep me upright, did I realize just the paradox of my situation. Inside the small storefront, nestled among tall stacks of books and sheet music, was a brown baby grand piano. The lid was propped open but the fallboard was down, protecting the keys. The rest of the room was covered with precarious piles of vintage objects and the walls completely covered with various canvas painting. The light that I’d followed came from a low hanging chandelier that cast the rich color around the room as it spun lazily.

I couldn’t help it, I tipped my head up at the starless, winter sky and started to laugh. My laughter racked my body until I couldn’t tell if I was laughing or gasping. Hysterics welled up and contracted in my throat. My voice sounded rough, crazy, solitary to my own ears but I didn’t stop and it started to hurt. I lowered my head, pressing my free hand to my aching side. When I pulled my hand away, it came away stained in crimson.

When had that happened? I couldn’t remember getting hit, but I quickly lost interest in it. The thread around my neck tightened painfully and I turned my gaze back to the piano. It sat comfortably in the room, among the scores of music and honey-colored tones of light. Contempt rose in my chest. The instrument basked in the warmth of the room while I stood outside, unable to do anything with myself. And even as hatred stole my breath, my fingers itched for the smooth cool texture of the keys, for the off-white ivory and inky black, for the sound that blanketed me.

What happened next, I can only blame on the alcohol and poor judgment. I raised a foot clad in my heavy black boots and slammed it into the glass of the door. The barrier shattered easily and I could easily pull the glass away from around my foot and step inside. I let the glass fall from my hands, shaking it off as if it was baggage I had to leave at the entrance of the storefront.

It smelled amazing inside. Vanilla mixed with dark scents of wood and nicotine. I felt for a pack of cigarettes and came up empty, but I didn’t stay disappointed for very long.

Warm air coated my freezing skin and I shivered even harder. My footsteps were heavy on the wooden floor, glass, and bits of gravel were left in my wake as I made a beeline for the piano. I pushed past several towers of books, knocking them over carelessly even though I possessed the motor skills to walk around them. A sense of recklessness washed over me now as I took a seat on the bench and lifted the fallboard.

And there were the keys, just as I had left them, All eighty-eight keys, fifty-two white and thirty-two black corralled in eleven octaves. I could hear their voices, calling clearly, echoing in my ears. My hands shook as I lifted them from my pockets and placed them carefully on the keys. I flinched. My fingers were so numb from the cold that I could barely feel anything. I didn’t need to feel the keys for my fingers to move on their own, to begin ghosting familiar key sequences.

I hadn’t touched a piano in almost two years and somehow, drunk and delirious, this piano had persuaded me back to the bench. My hands moved but I couldn’t hear anything, not really.

Once, the sound of a piano once possessed the power to bring me to tears, yet no