So, again no DBZ-ff. I'm sorry, I know this is a DBZ archive, but I told Nikouki that I'm going to write a story today and I'll keep what I promise to someone. This is another, let's say 'moral' story, and I can understand if no one is doing it. Before I process my depression here, I would like to thank the comment writers once again! Your comments have clearly lifted my mood again, but someone who is quite important to me has destroyed your `work` again. Well, even I am vulnerable. So that there are no misunderstandings about the last story: I don't ask anyone to post me comments (although I am thrilled every time), but I just wanted to say again that it is important for those who publish their first ffs is getting comments. This improves self-esteem and prevents giving up too quickly.So, the following story is very similar to my first psycho story, and don't be angry that it has nothing to do with DBZ. In my story I usually build my emotions and impressions, what I'm thinking about (yes, I think!) Etc., and with things like that psycho it just doesn't fit the DBZ characters. Well done. The foreword is again longer than the text.




River of grief




I am fascinated by the flowing movements of her hands. The movements are as fluid and lively as the water, the river, which the piece is about. Your hands flow in undulating movements over the wing. I admire her, my sister, who I've known for so long and yet every time we talk and laugh, I am surprised by her other side. She, who seems so educated and reserved, is a normal girl. She is 2 years older than me, but when we are together I feel the same age.In the moments when she reveals her other side to me, she is no longer my sister, but my best friend. People often think we're twins, from our similar looks to our clothes choices to our size. Even our father used to mix up our names, but that could also be because he was or is so seldom home. Our similar behavior can be explained by the fact that my sister taught me everything, so to speak. She had shaped my character with her hands like clay, and I like her because she is kind of family to me. Although she is my sister, she still replaces my whole family. I can hardly remember my mother, she left us early and never came back. I don't have any memories anyway. The only memories I had in my heart were of my sister. How she played, how she laughed. But as everything changes, so does our life.The happy girl with long hair has now become a withdrawn girl with a sad look. If I think about it, since my mother left. My father had never shown particularly emotions, and my sister was always strong anyway, she must have inherited that from him. I used to feel almost ashamed when I cried because my only relatives living with me were always strong. Well, you can hardly say that they live with me: my father still comes to our quiet house to eat and sleep, but he spends most of the time in the hospital. I used to think that his patients were more important to him and wondered if it wasn't my fault that he was never there. When I once asked him why he became a doctor, he replied that he was only doing this to help people. That was the simplest and most logical reason besides money why he took up this profession, but it never occurred to me until then. Practically half of my sister lives with me.When we laugh together or, which is less common, argue, she lives with me; when she dreams in her dream world, she is there. Now I understand both of them, they seemed strong, but that was just a facade to protect yourself. Now I feel the same way, I also wear a mask behind which I hide my true feelings. Even my sister, who is practically replacing my entire family, doesn't know my real feelings. Everyone thinks I'm self-confident and sometimes cheeky, but the real me looks different, is vulnerable and weeps silently. Sometimes I wondered if it was good if nobody really knew you. Well, as with everything, there are advantages and disadvantages. The good reasons are that nobody can hurt me anymore, the bad reasons that I despair and break in myself. Even my ego now seems to form more and more layers, down to the core, but this remained unexplored.


Her hands slide over the keys, playing with so much emotion and expression that the sounds take you into the young pianist's dream world.I close my eyes and concentrate. I see the river, the Vltava, which my sister brings to life with the sometimes gentle but also fast flowing movements. Now she gently intones the final chord with a riterdando. I open my eyes and look inconspicuously into my sister's face. She seems exhausted but happy. The rest of the evening goes by in a flash, it seems to me as if time has stopped, because now she's teaching me the piece herself. I enjoy it, although my passion for the piano is usually pretty limited. I unconsciously realize why my sister loves the piece so much. There is, so to speak, a force based on it, a force that cannot be withdrawn and which nevertheless invites you to unleash it. My fingers operate the manual, my right foot operated the pedal.




[...]




Tonight I had these images in my head again. The pictures of the night when mom died.I heard my mother scream one last time, you could hear the fear in her voice, as well as in my sister's, who was in the passenger seat. I leaned forward and saw the lights. Bright lights that burned their retina and memory. Then I saw this emptiness before me again.


With a wave of my hand I try to wipe away the memories with my tears, but again and again I hear them scream and see the lights. I can not anymore. I wonder if that was a sign. Every time I had this dream, someone close to me died. Thoughtfully I get dressed and sit next to my sister on the bus to school. My sister is sitting by the window and staring blankly at the snow-covered landscape. Now she was back in her world. She was always there for me when I needed her, even after the mom thing she was there. She would have needed someone to comfort her after that evening when she cried, but she was strong, was strong enough herself to help someone weak like me.I shake my head slightly. The bus stops and we get off, go to school and separate to go to our classrooms. The school day goes on as usual, the so-called classmates make fun of me again and again, but I ignore them, even if I do, I don't get angry with them. I'm looking forward to the practice lesson with my sister, where she wants to teach me the last parts. The next hour is music. Music should be one of my favorite subjects, but my favorite song was treated disrespectfully and superficially only once within 2 lessons. We write down things that are unimportant for me about the trombone, my instrument is the piano. I am torn out of my dreams as I am called. I cannot answer the question and am immediately laughed at. But while everyone is still laughing, a loudspeaker announcement can be heard through the corridors. I should come to the secretariat, please.Bored, I walk through the corridors.




(impersonal view)


The door opens; while her classmates are still laughing at her, the girl walks across the music hall with empty eyes towards the grand piano. Her teacher admonishes her, asks what she is doing. The teacher doesn't get an answer. The teacher yells at her pupil until a hand comes from behind on the teacher's shoulder and she turns around. She looks astonished at the headmaster, but since he fixes the piano with a fixed gaze, the teacher also looks back. The laughter of the rest of the students only sounds sporadic and unsettled. With her empty eyes resting on the grand piano, she pulls off the flap and lets it slide onto the floor, sits down on the stool and begins to play the Vltava without notes.




I play it one last time, the Moldau. My hands, like my whole self, are calm, playing the notes in flowing movements.I play the ups and downs for you, goodbye. But the farewell becomes a new beginning. Why didn't you tell me How so? But I won't leave you alone, I'll follow you soon.




Comments and criticism are very welcome.


Jeys