Can You Please Check out This Piece of Writing? for My Friend?

My music filled the room. I hear it in my ears and feel it running through me. Each note I play, sends a current. First, through the fingers, then the arm; it travels through my frame through the iron in my blood. Up, down and around it circulates, causing my small dead heart to beat again. Her voice sweet and oddly strong guides the chorus I play. The words of the song were foreign to my ears, but my heart sings, remembering a home long gone. The melody of our duet echoes against the lavishly decorated walls, trapped and unable to escape.

For a moment, as we sang together, her and her beautiful voice and me, my piano, the iron door was forgotten. The iron door with its reinforced plating, its rusted lock, its small barred window and the darkness on the other side-the divider was gone and we were one.

Every night we would sing like this, but for tonight, it was the last.

“What are you singing?” I remembered asking once, not knowing what it meant.

Aia was propped up against the door, which was why her soft singing reached me.

“Doesn’t have a name…It’s an old song” said she “and I don’t really know what it means. I just know the words and how to sing it.” She paused and from where I sat even if I can’t see, I could sense her hugging herself for warmth that was not there.

“But…somehow I believe it’s a love song.”

“Why’s that?”

“Just so. Every time I sing it, I feel as though I’m confessing my love to or of someone special to me but I can’t remember who it is anymore. “

“That’s quite an odd song then. Singing of love, but who it is that you do, you forgot.”

I did not tell her that I felt the same way, that the song was nostalgic, and that it reminds me of someone who was once very close to me, someone whom I once dearly loved, someone whom I can no longer remember. We talked once in a while over the course of her imprisonment, I asked about her life, her background and she asked about mine. As the date approaches so grows my apprehension and the more I regret doing more than just my duties. And as we near the end of our final performance together, I steeled myself, preparing for what I was about to commit.

Then, the song ended and a long uncomfortable pause followed.

Slowly closing the lid, I admire the old antique, still brightly polished and well tuned by me. I ran my hand along the smooth surface, feeling the coldness which I so desperately need. The reflection that looked up from the shiny black was of a man young, old, alive and dead.
That night before I took hers, like I took all of the others before her, in the gloom of the dark cell, lit only by the glowing hot blade in my hand, I knew it meant little, but I said it all the same.

“I’m sorry.”
The media crowd around her shoving the lens at her face, covering her full shame. She was unwashed, dirty, and filth covered her from her hair down to her bare feet. Her clothes were thin rags of yellow white barely covering her skin. She walked, unsteady in every step from hunger and from thirst, towards and through the masses. Uniformed officials, complete with their ceremonial animal masks, lead in front of her. Faithful black dogs marched stiff and straight, their bulging bellies swinging in protest, birds of flamboyant colors chatter and praise folly behind, cows, sheep and hens, walk all around her- heroes all of them- and I followed behind, elegant in white.

The crowd at the plaza was thick and boisterous under the grey sky, gearing for the festival that will soon follow afterwards. It was as if the entire nation had come together. Business men watched calculatingly, thinking perhaps of marketing possibilities, laborers and the common folk nod and talk, clearly excited by the cameras, students stand on their toes and small children sit, carried on their parents shoulders, hoping to get a better look at the queer, and the unlearned, the homeless, and the unclean who came mainly for the feast stared silently by the shadows, and even the brown shameless whores of the city under are present, they however were solemn and some were shedding tears for their sister. Lines of police in their black riot armor hold back the unruly cluster, the small implants extremely useful for coordination and maintaining discipline among them.
………………………………..…
UNFINISHED.
What do you think? Does it have potential?

IT SUCKS