[fanfic] Fingering
Author: hermonthis
Fandom/Film: The Piano (1993)
Genre: Drama, Romance
Summary: There is red ink on the pages of Ada's music.
Fingering
(There is red ink on the pages of Ada's music. Red akin to the colour of lust and blood.)
And he makes you forget about home. The black earth trapped underneath his uneven fingernails repulses you as he lifts your skirt for the payment of one black key. A most strange beginning to a revolution of a true, sexual awakening. But as he lies naked (illiterate) on the sunken bed and watches you slide your index finger upon the cool ivory of Middle C, you forget about your arranged marriage and your dour, aged father. As the tenuous accord between you and this savage, almost-Maori man starts to resonate as strong as the music inside your mind, the chill in your bones dissipates and you remember your daughter.
Remember the colour of the native rain, the untamed spirit inside the small body of a Scotswoman who cannot, and chooses, not to speak. The pale, fanciful stories of an angel-winged Flora. A woman fearful of her own desires but too free to be properly domesticated. A passionate heart so big there is no ocean to catch it. For there will never be words to adequately explain to your daughter what this man (No, he is not your father. I was not married to your father.) is doing to you and how steadily, painstakingly, and darkly you have stepped into sin and liberty.
Fandom/Film: The Piano (1993)
Genre: Drama, Romance
Summary: There is red ink on the pages of Ada's music.
Fingering
(There is red ink on the pages of Ada's music. Red akin to the colour of lust and blood.)
And he makes you forget about home. The black earth trapped underneath his uneven fingernails repulses you as he lifts your skirt for the payment of one black key. A most strange beginning to a revolution of a true, sexual awakening. But as he lies naked (illiterate) on the sunken bed and watches you slide your index finger upon the cool ivory of Middle C, you forget about your arranged marriage and your dour, aged father. As the tenuous accord between you and this savage, almost-Maori man starts to resonate as strong as the music inside your mind, the chill in your bones dissipates and you remember your daughter.
Remember the colour of the native rain, the untamed spirit inside the small body of a Scotswoman who cannot, and chooses, not to speak. The pale, fanciful stories of an angel-winged Flora. A woman fearful of her own desires but too free to be properly domesticated. A passionate heart so big there is no ocean to catch it. For there will never be words to adequately explain to your daughter what this man (No, he is not your father. I was not married to your father.) is doing to you and how steadily, painstakingly, and darkly you have stepped into sin and liberty.