It Felt Like Standing In The Rain (Rough Draft)

The rough draft of a descriptive essay for Written Communication.

 

As you leave the large commons of the local high school, you turn left into a hallway that is considerably darker than the rest of the hallways you had seen. Instead of the white tile floor that matched wall made of white slabs of cement, this corridor had a dark carpet with faded white walls. Ahead of you there is a ramp that went down and turned left, out of sight. But something else catches your eye. There are three glass doors along the left wall, all seemingly identical. You decide to check out the first one. You pause a moment to change the way your hand is positioned though, because the door handle is not a knob. It is a slick grey plate of metal, sticking straight out of the door before curving to the side so a person could grab onto it. You pull it open, noticing how it moves smoothly, but at the same time was a bit heavy. As you enter the room, you hear the door close with a loud smack. The silence settles around you, pressing against everything. The first thing you notice is how small the room is. The wall directly in front of you is about five feet away.

It not cramped though. Its… cozy. It is made of once white panels, that are now faded, more of a light tan color. There is small pieces of fuzz sticking off of them, showing where they had been scraped and rubbed a bit too much. You glance to the right and notice the only two pieces of furniture. Or rather, one piece of furniture and an instrument.

The piano is more square shaped than the grand pianos that automatically came to mind when mentioned. It’s light, sandy brown color is very homey. As you looked longer, you notice the yellowish tones that came with the brown instrument, drawn out by the rectangular ceiling light. As you approach, you notice that its pushed up against the wall, making the width of the room only about seven feet. You sit down on the small stool placed near by. It only reaches your knee, but is still the perfect height. It is completely black, except where the cushion’s shiny plastic-­like covering was picked, revealing the brown and tans inside. As you shift to face the piano, the seat immediately rocks on it’s legs and emits a loud squeaking sound. Every time you moved even slightly, a creak pierced the silence. You glance to the right, and notice theres a window, out to the hallway. It was the exact same size as the door, almost floor to ceiling.

You return your attention to the piano, looking it over. The wood is smooth to the touch, and you run your hand over it a few times. But you draw your hand back when some small splinters on the fallboard rub against your fingers. You try to lift it, but the right side catches on the piano, getting stuck. It was almost like it was too big for the instrument. You hesitantly try to pull it up, but it creaks ominously. You let go of the fallboard, waiting a moment to make sure it won’t fall on your fingers. Tentatively, you press one of the middle keys. The ivory key does not disappoint, letting out a satisfyingly clear note, momentarily breaking the silence you had forgotten about.

Looking down, you see the three golden pedals you knew would be there. As you take in the scraped up smoky color quite visible below the paint, you take notice of the floor. Its a mix of blacks and greys, tightly woven together. You reach down, and confirm the prediction of it being very rough to the touch. The carpet was meant to be flat, but seemed more so than usual. Possibly due to being used often? Perhaps.

Leaning back up, you accidentally put your weight on your hand, causing a slam of notes that clash hideously. Wincing, you quickly retract your hand. Now that you are looking at the piano again, an idea comes to you. You’ve never known how to play, but always enjoyed making your own little tunes. It was easy, you just pressed keys that sounded good together, and continued from there. Closing your eyes, a smile twitches into place. You press some chords that have always been nameless to you, but had always sounded sweet. The notes, though sloppy and untimed, hit the air like sparks. No… not sparks. It was calmer than that; smoother. It was like raindrops hitting the ground during a soft shower. In June, when the the air was warm and heavy, and the drops of water were cool. Slow and easy, but with a strange, unexplainable energy to them. The music sends a buzz through your system. You breathe in slowly, taking in the dusty smell. You would have thought something dusty would have smelled unpleasant, but it is relaxing. It reminds you of being in an old house, or deep in a forest. It isn’t necessarily a clean smell, but it was nice, and untampered. It was real.

You continue to press the same keys over and over, letting the short little melody wash over you, striking at the silence that had long since been shattered. Suddenly your fingers slip and you press another atrocious mixture of keys together. Stilling your hands, you open your eyes and laugh to yourself quietly. You look for a clock, but find none on the bare walls, so you check your phone. It was almost time to leave. Standing up, the small smile grows slightly due to that little squeaking sound coming from the stool. As you push open the door, you know you will be back.

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