Blackbird in F minor

TW: mental illness.

Katherine stood in front of the wall for what seemed like the hundredth time that week. A distasteful beige stared back at her. Tapping her foot and resting her chin in the palm of her hand, she debated again whether to choose a light duck egg blue or a rich mustard yellow. The two lines of bold paint stood out on the wall next to each other, marking that Katherine’s decision had come down to the final two. A hundred paint swatches on paper were littered all over the wooden floor amongst the brown cardboard boxes, stacked up so the living room appeared as a city skyline. Katherine simply stepped on them, peering closely at the wall, simply hoping that the right colour would emerge out of the wall itself, unfurling in splotches until it was clear that the colour had been decided for her. The evening autumn sunlight spread through the curtainless windows, giving the stacked boxes long dark shadows that stood tall against Katherine’s wall. She sighed. With the natural light disappearing, she would have to wait until tomorrow to make her decision.

The front door slammed faintly in the distance, outside of Katherine’s focus of attention. Her husband’s footsteps, instantly recognisable due to the fact that he never picked his feet up off of the floor, bounced along the walls of the empty hallway, eventually reaching the living room. She did not turn to greet his entrance.

“Jesus Katherine, how long have you been stood there?”
Katherine made no reply, merely stroking the wall with her worn fingers. Years of piano playing and practicing constantly had taken their toll, making her hands filled with indents and scars like intricate lines on a map. She gently ran her fingers over the wall, marking each unique crevice and dent. The wall reminded her of her own palms.
Her husband carried on, only just noticing what Katherine was staring at. “Oh. Mustard or blue it is then. I preferred the dark green – think it matches the room better.” With that, he turned and left the living room, loud footsteps dissipating as they grew further away. Katherine breathed in deeply, still not taking her eyes off of the wall.
They had only moved in last week. Katherine fell in love with the house the moment she saw it, standing proud amongst the rose bushes and dark trees with its rusty orange front door. She could smell honeysuckle and the fresh dewy grass, and she felt like the house was revealing to her how wonderful it could be here. The house had no neighbours and was only surrounded by fields and birdsong; there were no other houses in a five-mile radius at least. The house needed work, but she didn’t mind spending the time to make it her own. Besides, it had charm and an air that made Katherine feel at home, a feeling she had only associated before with sitting at her piano. She had decided immediately that it would be hers. After months of laborious paperwork and back-and-forth bartering, she finally signed her name on the dotted line and held the jingling silver keys in her hand.
With the natural light dwindling, Katherine went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Nothing a cup of tea couldn’t fix, she always told herself. She liked the way the scaling hot liquid left little numb ridges on her tongue that stung for days afterward. As the kettle clicked, she felt the house shudder as the front door slammed. This meant Tom was working late, again. Katherine met Tom when she was just sixteen. It had been young love, the kind your grandparents have, an old-fashioned infatuation. They got married in a small registry office at twenty and had a dingy basement flat at twenty-one. On their first night in their new home, the heating gave in, having had enough of the freezing December air. Tom put on the tumble dryer for warmth and wrapped Katherine in all the duvets and blankets they had, giggling because Tom named her his ‘little burrito’. As the Christmas lights from the high street sprinkled in through the windows and reflected in Tom’s face, she realised that this was all she ever wanted.

Tom didn’t really like the new house – Katherine could see this. They had worked really hard to save, with Tom staying late at the office for overtime and Katherine taking on extra piano students, but he wasn’t as happy as Katherine when they signed for Oaktree Cottage. He annoyingly didn’t want to be involved in the process of moving, leaving Katherine to organise everything alone and make all the decisions, only dropping in to complain about something he didn’t like. Even though they had now purchased the house and didn’t need to worry about money anymore, the late nights at the office still continued.

Katherine poured her tea, adding two and a half sugars. She could not have her tea any other way. Immediately taking a sip, she felt those burning lumps swell on her tongue, and finally she could breathe. The temperature was just right.

***
The living room window framed Katherine’s face like she was in a photograph. Her faded reflection placed her on the other side of the glass, the ghost of herself floating in amongst the horse-chestnut trees outside. She often looked out of the window, just to observe the ways the world goes about its daily business. She never saw people, of course; they rarely came this far out of the way for their countryside walks, but Katherine preferred to look at the trees and plants and all the different shades of green that ebbed and flowed in the wind. She felt as if she was looking at the front of a postcard, with the stone garden path sloping downwards and the brown gate stripping away its paint like orange peel. On the middle of the front lawn, a small blackbird landed suddenly and tilted its head to one side, peering at Katherine through the window. She had noticed that he had landed here on her lawn most mornings and pecked at the grass scouring for worms. Katherine felt they understood one another. Plus, he reminded her of that Beatles song, which she used to love playing on the piano when she was learning. This morning, his black shiny coat glimmered in the dewy sunlight and his beak seemed smooth like the keys of a piano. Katherine wished she could hold him in her hand, feeling his soft feathers pulsate under her palms as his tiny little heart went on beating. Just as Katherine was picturing his little family in their nest, waiting for his return, he was gone. Tom’s voice invaded Katherine’s head like the sound of a glass jar smashing.

“Have you started preparing for tonight?”
Katherine didn’t know what that meant, but she decided it was best not to tell Tom that. Instead, she offered him a small smile.

“My boss will be here, and we need to make a good impression if I’m going to get that promotion.”

Katherine suddenly remembered. The office dinner party they were holding for Tom’s colleagues and his boss. Think of the blackbird.

“You know what? I’ll do it myself.” Tom marched out the room. “Bloody hell,” he muttered as the door slammed behind him.
Looking at her hands, she found the ridges where her fingernails had dug into her palms, deep caverns in her calloused hands.

***
At 6pm, the doorbell chimed through the hall. Their first guests were arriving.

Most of the afternoon was spent upstairs, putting on lipstick and mascara and blush and choosing the right dress. Katherine despised the frivolities of dinner parties, all the pointless dressing up and playing house just to impress people that she didn’t know or really care about, but it was what Tom needed from her, and so she obliged. In the end, she decided on a dark blue, knee-length vintage style dress that had long chiffon sleeves, with little rabbits embroidered on the hem. Katherine imagined them running in little circles around the bottom of her dress, chasing at nothing. She had made classic dinner party food, hors d'oeuvres and cocktails, playing the good little wife, whilst Tom had rushed around making the house look presentable, clearing up Katherine’s paint swatches and stacked cardboard boxes. Her skin burned as he removed her hard work, but still, what could she do but smile at him?
The dinner party was in full swing. Katherine smiled and passed round plates and nodded her head and complacently leaned in to conversations to agree with this and that and praise Tom’s work ethic and my, isn’t he a saint, isn’t he such a wonderful husband, aren’t you a lucky lady Katherine? To which Katherine nodded and smiled and handed out cocktails. The fading light danced across the room, reflecting on glasses and giving the walls an orange glow. Glasses chinking and appropriate laughter echoed in their quite bare living room, besides their new patchwork sofa and a glass table, housing a prosecco tower Tom had spent the afternoon building. The piano stood proudly in the back corner, which is where Katherine stood as much as she could, next to her only friend in the room. She only left when Tom beckoned her over to some other frivolous conversation in which he needed her to sing his praises.

On this occasion, Tom called Katherine over to talk to his boss, Evan, and his very glamourous wife, Delilah, who was the only one not laughing at Evan’s joke that had the whole circle of men in eruptions of laughter, with sporadic polite giggles here and there from their dull wives. Katherine doused herself in smiles and polite head nods, weaving her way through men with patterned ties and their wives clutching glasses of rosé to finally reach Tom. His arm immediately snaked around her waist, as he pulled her into his side. She knew what that meant. Don’t fuck this up for me.
Evan was a large, older man, probably in his late fifties, with a greying moustache and an expensive looking suit that was definitely too tight for him. Delilah stood by his side, Katherine estimated around 20 years his younger, wearing a slim, shimmery green backless dress and the highest heels Katherine had ever seen. Her lipstick was the brightest shade of red, and she had heavy eyeshadow that made her eyes seem dark and unreadable. She was elegant, not a hair out of place. A trophy wife. This is what Tom wanted Katherine to be, what he was edging her towards. Katherine found those familiar fingernail ridges in the palm of her hands and pressed hard. She then realised Evan had asked her a question, and everyone was silently awaiting her answer.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.”

Tom covered Katherine’s mistake out of embarrassment by laughing nervously. “Katherine’s always away with the fairies. Just ignore her.”

Evan smiled reassuringly at me. “Tom tells me you play, Katherine?” he repeated politely, gesturing to the piano in the far corner of the room.

“She’s the best in the business, aren’t you sweetheart?” Tom smiled that sickly smile, and Katherine returned to the familiar. Smile, blink, nod.

“We’d love to hear you play.” A drawled, throaty voice pierced the air.

“What an excellent idea Delilah!” Evan commended. “I’m sure Katherine wouldn’t mind.”

Tom’s grip tightened. “Darling, will you play for us?”

Katherine’s words fell out of her mouth in a strangled garble of noise. “Oh, I’m not sure. I haven’t played in months - had to stop teaching whilst we moved here.”

Evan chuckled naively. “Never mind that! Haven’t you been playing for years?” “Of course she’ll play,” Tom bluntly stated. Before Katherine could even utter a word, his hands were guiding her away towards the piano. She placed herself on the stool which had moulded to her shape after years of sitting, day and night, practicing over and over. To Katherine, it was like greeting an old friend. The room’s sound died out, save for a mummering her and there. Katherine could hear fizzing bubbles dancing in champagne flutes held by nearby hands. Everyone could finally see her. She unfurled her hands. Her palms were bleeding, skin bursting under the pressure of her sharp fingernails. She began drifting far from this room, from the house, from Tom and the superficial businessmen and women in red lipstick and mini bruschetta platters. The blackbird stood on the piano’s lid next to her champagne glass, eyeing her eagerly. She played only for him.
Chopin’s Ballad No. 4 in F minor, lasting twelve minutes. Her fingers found the ivory quickly, knowing exactly what came next, the shape of each note unfurling in the air. She could tell each note by the feel of the keys beneath her fingertips. The reverberation vibrated through Katherine’s fingertips, making her skin shudder. The blackbird continued to stare at Katherine, watching her hands moving fluidly across the black and white blur. Katherine kept her eyes shut the entire time, feeling the music all the way to her bones. She caught a glimpse of Tom out of the corner of her eye. He was standing in the shadowy corner with Delilah, his hand on her arm. He wasn’t watching Katherine play. He was whispering in Delilah’s ear, and she was smiling like she had discovered all of his greatest secrets at once. The last note of the piece echoed through the room, ricocheting off of the windows and crashing into the prosecco tower that stood in the middle of the room on the table. The sound of breaking glass exploded as the tower fell, sending golden alcohol across the carpet and coating the plain walls with ghostly stains. Katherine opened her eyes. She was no longer sitting down. The piano was covered in blood, the black and whites tainted with the darkened red she had smeared across the keys as she had played. She realised that her champagne glass was no longer on top of the piano, but its remnants were laying smashed at the bottom of where the prosecco tower had just stood. The blackbird was gone.

***

Tom had not returned home since that night, Katherine was certain. Even if he had, she wouldn’t have noticed. Her days were spent looking for the blackbird, staring out of the window awaiting his return. He had not visited her since Tom had left, and she was beginning to feel she had upset him in some way. Katherine could feel herself unravelling, like Tom’s old woollen jumper that their old ginger cat, Misty, had torn to shreds a few winters ago. Her palms were slowly healing, though the scars reopened every time Katherine flexed her palms. The house began to feel unfriendly, as if it was punishing her for not looking after it anymore. It had been weeks since the party, and the smashed glass still remained on every surface of the living room. Katherine kept cutting her feet as she walked across the carpet, and little trickles of blood followed her footsteps. The alcohol had stained the carpet and was emitting a sour smell that lingered in the air. The crumbs and plates and empty champagne flutes littered with lipstick marks around their rims stayed where their owners had left them. Katherine had not cleaned the blood from the piano, and it had become dried and flaky, leaving marks on its pristine white keys. Looking out the window became Katherine’s only solace. She pined for the blackbird, his softness and his guiding eyes that made her understand exactly what she needed to do.
The front door creaked open. Katherine’s head did not turn. Tom walked slowly into the living room, taking in the state of the house that he didn’t feel he belonged in any longer.

“Katherine?” he said into the air softly. Katherine did not move.

“Please can you say something?”
“What do you want me to say?” Katherine replied monotonously. “Anything, Katherine. I just want you to tell me what you’re thinking.”

Katherine couldn’t tell Tom about the blackbird, or about how she felt like he didn’t love her anymore. She couldn’t say why she dug her nails into her palms, or why she felt as if this house she had so desperately wanted was suffocating her. She wanted to ask what it was about Delilah that was so interesting, why Tom had chosen to destroy his marriage with Katherine for her.

Katherine still hadn’t turned to look at him. “Why are you fucking Delilah, Tom?”

Tom’s face froze. Katherine had never spoken to him this way before. “Katherine, I-”

“I don’t want your pathetic excuses.” Katherine cut his words before they’d even left his mouth.

“For Christ’s sake Katherine, what are you playing at? I don’t even know who you are anymore. I mean look at the state of the house! What are you doing all day? Staring into space like some crazy freak?”

“This is my house. My name is on the deed, not yours. Bet you didn’t know that did you? I can do whatever I want here.”

“You told me I had signed it-”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t. This is my house, and I don’t want to see you in it anymore. You may stay, you may leave, I don’t care.” The fire inside Katherine was raging, burning, and she kept pouring on the gasoline.

“Katherine, you have to understand. You showed me up, in front of my boss and everyone I work with. My reputation has taken a hit. They all think my wife is losing it.”

“Why do you care what they think?” Katherine’s voice was now getting increasingly louder, and she could no longer hear the birds singing their happy tunes outside.

“Because it’s my job! What don’t you understand?”

“I don’t understand why you don’t care about me anymore!”
There was a silence. Tom stormed out of the living room, slamming each door behind him, forcing them into a violent echo. Katherine’s hands were bleeding again. She was holding a glass shard she had picked up from the windowsill. Half of it was embedded in her palm as she squeezed her hand. The trickling blood felt soothingly warm.

***

After a few days, the blackbird returned. Katherine was at the window chewing her nails repetitively. There was hardly any nail left, just small stubs and indents where her nails had been. Instinctively, Katherine turned her head slightly and there he was, on the lawn in his usual spot, singing his mellow little tweets softly. His innocent song floated on the wind and whistled through the trees as it danced lightly along the air. His voice was the sweetest sound Katherine had heard. Maybe he was trying to tell her something. He had a certainty, knowledge that she could never understand nor possess. She listened for hours on end, waiting for him to reveal all his secrets. Katherine heard no other sounds. Only the blackbird’s singing went round in her head, like a record that had been scratched and was stuck, playing the same part on repeat. It was the rise of the early morning sunlight on a Monday morning that made Katherine understand what she needed to do. It had been in her head all along.

***

Katherine’s hands were a shipwreck, broken and battered against the rocks and sunken to the depths of their own demise. She still managed to light the match however, and the sound of the match striking against the comb of the match box made her feel at ease. She had calmly poured the gasoline over the lawn, making it look like it was fresh with the morning dew. The sun cast a brief look on Katherine as its rays rose weakly after a night’s rest. There was a small dry circle in which the blackbird still stood, protected by Katherine from harm. He was watching Katherine stumble around the garden intently, his small head turning in abrupt movements. She quietly hummed ‘Blackbird’, as it had been stuck in her head for days and she just couldn’t get rid of it. The blackbird began to sing along, and Katherine turned to look at him, smiling gently. In an instant, she dropped the lit match. The grass was engulfed in flame, an orange glow lighting up Katherine’s face. She smiled as she noticed that the flames were the same colour as her blackbird’s beak. She walked forward slowly, so as not to scare him, and gently reached out her hand. The orange wave was growing in size and absorbing the grass, the tips gently rising up the front door to her house. Katherine’s focus was on her blackbird. Her hand was so close to him now, and he sat waiting for her touch. She gently scooped him up into the palm of her broken hands and pulled him close to her chest. He felt soft in her hands, just like she had imagined. He was still and calm and showed no signs of trying to struggle free. Katherine could feel his tiny heart beating quickly under his feathers and she stroked her thumb across the top of his head affectionately. She stood back under the horse-chestnut trees as she watched Oaktree Cottage become alive again. It was impossible to say whether Tom was home or not – Katherine could not remember. She decided finally on the right colour for the living room wall – a light duck egg blue would be the perfect fit.