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| The Piano Man parody | |
| By Belladonna | ||||||||||||
| 15 July 2007 | ||||||||||||
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This work again stems from my English class. It's my version of the piano man story ( i.e the one where the man washed up in Kent, didn't speak to anyone but could play the piano amazingly) My version uses two contrasting monologues, one from my darker version of the piano man and the other from a doctor who treated him in his early life. Enjoy Please review! Bold= Piano Man. Italics= Doctor. I always knew I was special. Now the world can see it too. My music shall bring the world closer together. I am being broadcast around the world, millions of people know my face, but not a single one knows my name. I am the piano man. That’s what I shall be called for the rest of my life. My name means nothing. I am no one without my music. I am the piano man. I am the music I play. Words mean nothing. They shall never get me to speak. His face, it burns in my brain. Why do I know that face? Why is it so uncomfortably familiar? What is it about this case that rings a bell? Why the piano? I will get to the bottom of this if it kills me. My God they’re stupid! I would gladly kill them all if I did not need them. The doctor tries to communicate to me through nods. What good is that going to do? Does he not realise that I will never speak to him? Why waste my time and effort on someone so disgustingly below me? I will play for them though. The simple amoebas seem to get pleasure from hearing me play; it might bring some culture to their despicable lives. They are a starting ground. Once I have their attention I shall bring my music to the world. Change every humans life with my notes. I shall heal them all. It can’t be true. If what I believe to be correct is in fact right we need to help him, and fast. The young boy with the captivating smile, a tortured genius at the piano, a raging volcano ready to explode at any given moment. He is usually harmless, but if provoked…I dare not say. How did he get to Kent? Where is his carer? I must contact him immediately. They are passionate about my music. Finally, the recognition I deserve. If anyone deserves success, it is me and me alone. I hear the nurses talking, believing me to not understand. I am getting national sympathy. People are desperate to know where I come from. I am no longer invisible. They want to know my story. They want to hear my music. No more rejection, no more criticism, only undying love. How I have longed for this moment. Planned it for so many years, and now, finally, it is within my grasp. I shall not let go. Jesus, the worst that could possibly happen has come true. His carer, murdered in his bed and all the clues point to him. Why would anyone else want to kill an old man? Why would anyone else use piano wire to choke their victim to death? It is all too much of a coincidence for the murder to lend itself to anyone else’s hands. It’s like he wants to be discovered. I fear that we have unleashed a monster and it’s all my fault. I don’t believe this to be his first killing. I must find evidence to put my mind at rest, or horribly awaken the truth that I long not to exist. It was intoxicating. Playing on that grand piano in the most spectacular of chapels, the audience hanging on my every note. Listening, analysing, and loving. I could hear whispered amazement amongst them. Where did he learn to play? What is he playing? I fascinate them, and more importantly my music intrigues them. They spend hours researching yet they will never find an answer. My music is in no text book or strewn carelessly across an internet page. Why would I be that stupid? To put this, music worthy of the gods themselves, in places for mere mortals to view, to steal and to claim as their own. My music is original, it is like nothing human ears have ever heard before and when it is broadcast to the masses it will change their lives. My music will live forever. The world will end before my music is forgotten. I am starting to fear that he is not as harmless as I once thought. If only I’d had him committed there and then we would not be in this situation, but no I had to let the child live his life. He had anger problems true but nothing worthy of an institution. How could I not see the signs? He must have been planning it all along. He’d always mention that he hated his parents. That they made him feel invisible, as if he didn’t matter. But there was no reason for him to kill them. I always wondered how he’d escaped. A small child could not survive a fire that killed two adults. I just assumed it had been luck, but of course, if he’d planned it all along, he would have had an escape. He appeared grief stricken when I saw him but then there were the signs, those peculiar traits that made you question their death but never enough to say it aloud. On revisiting the case the evidence for his involvement is so clear. We were all seeing him through rose tinted glasses. There can be no question that he caused the fire or that he killed his carer. He always said he would do anything to get his music heard. We should not have been so quick to dismiss these seemingly innocent remarks. I am a genius. He is a lunatic.
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