This is going to be a good one, too. I'm confident of that. I think... Anyway, tell me what you think!
Remiel couldn't remember walking to the park and yet there he was, standing on the flagstone path that meandered through small, green fields and around leafy young trees. He was startled for a moment but then something small and bright caught his attention and he followed, almost unconsciously, after the little crimson bird. To those who observed the lanky fellow moving haltingly toward a small copse of trees he seemed a bit of a loon. Indeed, he did have the random, un-kept look of the insane and he never seemed to look directly at anything, but right through everything as if he wasn't a part of the general and more accepted reality.
He was young. Twenty five, maybe twenty six, though the shadows beneath his eyes made him look a little older, or at least a little wiser to the ways of the world. He had dark hair that fell in soft waves around his face, large brown eyes, and full lips that seemed perpetually to pout. His coat was dirty and completely unnecessary on such a balmy day, but his mother had told him not to forget his coat. Never mind that she was dead and had only hounded him about such things when the weather was chilly.
Once the little bird left his field of vision Remiel stopped, trying hard to remember why he was there. When no reasons came to him he accepted it as one of the many pointless things that happened in life and he moved toward a little lake. It was really more of a large pond and it was only the movement of the ducks swimming there that attracted his attention.
Remiel began to laugh. It was a loud, wild laugh that made the ducks swim off and a nervous mother herd her chubby, squealing children away from him. His hands went to his head when he laughed again, as if he hoped to contain his emotion with his slender hands. But his laughter kept bursting out and slipping through his skinny fingers until the emotion that caused it was entirely spent and he was left standing silent and hunched.
"You're all mad..." He murmured to the ducks, who only quacked stupidly in response. "but I don't suppose the fish mind, so why should I?"
He chuckled softly but no wild laughter came this time and he lowered himself to sit on an exposed tree root that jutted up by the water. He wrapped his arms around his long legs and rested his chin heavily on his knees. Such postures made him look almost childish despite his overgrown appearance. He began to hum a little and his fingers drummed rapidly against his legs, pounding out a melody that only he could hear. It was beautiful in his head, the melody. It moved him deeply so that he swayed there on his tree-root seat.
Suddenly he ached for a piano. He wished there was one by the lake so he could make his sweet melody more real, more moving. He rocked precariously on his seat but he didn't fall over. He longed for his old piano, his first.
But Jim had smashed that poor old instrument.
He stopped moving for a moment and his face filled with pain at the thought of Jim. Why had his mother kept that horrible man around? Why had she let Jim hurt her beloved son?
Remiel had shown quite a talent when it came to the piano. He had a good ear for music and even at a young age he had pulled himself up on the piano bench and plunked out simple melodies that steadily became more complex and beautiful the longer he kept it up. He had been a shy and lonely child and the music had given him solace. When he played the piano and his fingers danced and the music romped and twisted playfully in his head he was at peace. He was the master of his own domain, even if that domain was mostly in his head. As he got older he played less, often going for long stretches without touching his old piano, but when he did play again the sound was exalting and even his pitiless stepfather had stopped to listen with something almost like interest in his eyes.
His mother had been so proud. She had encouraged him always and praised him liberally, but she'd been too caught up in her own life to notice the frequent periods during which he neglected his piano. He was in junior high and finally making friends and, despite his shyness, he even had a few short relationships with girls. When he reached high school he stopped making music altogether, though it never really left him.
Remiel started to sway again. The music. Always the music.
Poor ruined creature. That's what people thought when they saw him. And how tragic that one so beautiful should be ruined so young.
Remiel suddenly stopped moving altogether. He might have been a statue there by the little lake. It was all coming back to him, there by the water. It was flooding into his consciousness and invading his peace. It was cruel and insistent and he wisely let it come. It would not be denied.
I'll try to post a drawing of Remy soon.