One thing that not many A-Uers know about me is that I am a very dedicated writer. I have chosen in the past not to post much of my writing here on A-U, but decided to post a short story I wrote recently as part of a project on another forum, just to see what you all might think.

This is not a fanfic, but I've been told fiction of all sorts are allowed. It is most definitely rated G.
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Never Leave

Peter walked through the front door and collapsed on the couch. He ran a hand through his tousled blond hair, closing his aching eyes. The living room clock ticked in the watchful darkness of 4:00 a.m. He opened his eyes and glanced towards the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. He knew his parents slept there. He wondered how late they had waited up for him.

The hard cell-phone dug into Peter's hip, so he pulled it out of his pocket. Flipping it open, he studied the call history. He stared, transfixed by the top entry. “Monica Trevis – 7:48 p.m., Nov. 2, 2009.” That string of pixels on the bright display represented that last conversation, represented her quiet words – “it's over.” He had asked why. She wouldn't say.

Peter flung the phone across the room. It hit the wall with a sharp clack and then fell to the tan carpet. He shuddered. The clock's tick filled the emptiness with the monotony of loneliness.

His motions slow, almost pained, Peter rotated so his feet hit the floor, and he stood up. He walked across the dim living room towards the piano, a boxy silhouette in front of the floor-length window. His foot caught on one of the piano bench's legs, and he stumbled. Grasping the top of the upright he stopped his fall. The teenager grabbed the piano bench and moved it back, the smooth, polished wood cool under his warm fingers. He sat down. Hooking his fingers under the lid, he uncovered the piano's keyboard.

The ivory keys felt soft under his fingers. Peter ran through a list of songs in his head, the stream of thoughts automatic. He could not make himself care enough to choose one to play. The clock continued its endless rhythm, daring him not to play at all.

His right thumb pressed down on middle C. The note sounded loud and discordant, and his heart raced. Peter breathed deep, his lungs filling with the clean air. Then three fingers pressed the keys at once, forming a chord. Before his mind could stop him, his fingers flew over the keyboard. The white-blue light of street lamps poured in the window over the keys, sharp as a razor, sharing in his lament like a sympathetic ghost.

Notes filled the air, clamoring in the silence. Sometimes they came from somewhere in his head or his heart, improvised in that instant, lost forever once the moment passed. At other times he dimly realized that he played short segments of songs he had learned years ago. Often his fingers slipped and he hit a disharmonious note. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but that he continue to play. He closed his eyes, focusing in on the music twisting up through his fingers into his aching mind. The world stopped, and just for him time ceased to exist.

Peter closed his eyes, but his fingers still moved. His right foot worked the pedal out of habit. He hit more and more wrong notes, and his breaths came heavy and ragged now. The notes stopped coming, and then one loud, disjointed cord sounded as he collapsed over the keyboard, his head resting on his arms.

The clock's ticking once again held sway over the otherwise silent room. Peter sat up straight again, blinking. The pale light streaming over his face was the light of dawn.

“Good morning.”

Peter turned around at the sound of the soft voice, too exhausted to be surprised. His mother sat on the couch, wrapped tight in her soft blue dressing gown.

“We were worried about you, Peter. I waited up until 2:00 before going to bed, and came down when I heard you playing the piano.” Her blue eyes echoed concern beneath her tousled, graying red hair.

“I'm sorry mom, I really am.” Peter fixed his eyes on the piano keys. “I needed... to think. I needed to be away.”

“What happened?” She stood up and walked over to stand beside him.

“Monica... she broke up with me.” The words sounded ugly and cliché in his ears.

His mother sat down beside him and put an arm around his shoulder. “I'm so sorry, Peter.”

“Yeah, me too.”

They shared several minutes of silence as the light grew around them. Peter could feel the gentle touch of his mother's hand rubbing his back.

“Are you alright?” she asked at last.

Peter looked up at the light streaming through the window. He nodded. “I will be. Would it be weird if I said playing the piano keeps me alive?”

A gentle smile touched his mother's face. “Not at all. I would say it's a good thing.”

“The piano keys are good friends,” Peter commented, his voice a little hoarse from simple exhaustion. “Their music never leaves you.”

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<center>-In Christ alone my hope is found, He is my light, my strength, my song-

^JF is awesome

There will come a time with no more tears
and love will not break your heart but dismiss your fears</center>