Oct 05 2007
I was seven years old when
My parents signed me up for piano lessons.
I went there twice a week
They were held in small room
Furnished with two chairs and an old piano.
My teacher was OK but still
I hated those lessons with all my guts.
And I despised to turn up in that room.
It felt like torture.
In addition, I practiced at home.
My piano stood in a living room, next to
My father was often lying there, reading, smoking
Spitting pieces of loose tobacco
On book pages, sometimes farting.
When I stumbled
He yelled ‘You son of a bitch! Play it again and play it good.’
It was especially bad when he was drunk,
‘You’re fucking idiot! How many times you’re gonna play over this shit?
Do it again. Do it. Do it. DO IT.’
I had to sit at the piano till midnight
Sick with headache,
Hating music, my father, everything.
The more I stumbled the more he yelled at me to play again,
Again and again until he was tired himself.
Once I said to my mother ‘Listen, I don’t want to go to those lessons anymore.’
‘Do you know how much I’ve already
Have paid for your lessons? You wanna waste all these money or what?
Stop your whining, ’ –She said.
But one day I decided to skip it anyhow.
I nicked a knife from a kitchen,
Went to my room and started cutting my arms. A knife was blunt so
It did not even cut my skin properly.
There was preciously little blood but still
It looked like mess. I became frightened.
Mother returned home and cried ‘Son! Hurry up. It’s time for your piano lesson.’
I shoved her my arms. She gasped:
‘What the Hell is this?’
‘I scratched my arms. It was an accident’ – I lied.
‘Are you crazy? How could you scratch your arms so?’
‘Are you an idiot or something? Anyway, it is time for your lesson.
Hurry up now and put on something with long sleeves.’
I grabbed my notebooks and headed to
A piano lesson. My arms burned badly but sleeves of my jacket hid all cuts.
That day the lesson went as usual.