Crimson Ties

She drifted in the murkiness of her dream, her mind disoriented. Where am I? The thought flickered like a faint light in the haze, dim and elusive, vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

Her fingers brushed against something smooth and cold. Keys? Yes, piano keys. She was seated at a grand piano, its imposing structure oddly familiar, yet strangely unsettling. The room around her was bathed in a soft, warm glow—everything suffused in shades of pink, vibrant and colorful. The air felt thick with serenity, the kind of atmosphere that wrapped itself around her like a comforting embrace.

A voice pierced through the thickening stillness, soft yet brimming with warmth. "You can do it. Just like we practiced."

Her head turned toward the voice. Her father stood nearby, his tall frame partially illuminated by a weak shaft of light that barely cut through the thickening gloom. His eyes shone with pride, unwavering support, and his expression was gentle, offering quiet encouragement—a protective shield that should've made her feel safe.

But even as he spoke, his image started to distort, flickering in and out of focus, like a photograph half-developing. The vibrant pinks of the room began to bleed into murky grays. His silhouette grew hazy, dissolving into the growing shadows.

Then she gazed around, something felt... off. The shadows, once sharp and distinct, clung more heavily to the corners, creeping like ink spreading across paper. The bright, happy colors began to dull, fading, as though the vibrancy of the world itself were slowly evaporating. The air grew dense, no longer light and pleasant, but thick and suffocating.

The warmth she had once felt seemed to drain away, replaced by an inexplicable coldness that wrapped itself around her chest. The air, once thick with quiet comfort, now felt oppressive, like an unseen weight pressing against her lungs.

Her father's voice steadied her. "That's it. Beautiful. Keep going."

His words, though kind, seemed to echo hollowly, as if they were bouncing off walls of empty space. The colors of the room continued to wash away, leaving everything stripped of its warmth. The piano before her, once so vivid in its design, seemed to grow more imposing, its black lacquer dulling with every passing second. The keys she touched felt sticky, as though coated in something unpleasant.

She nodded, her hands trembling as she placed them on the piano keys. The first note came out weak, a thin, wavering sound that barely filled the space around her. But her father's voice, though distorted, still tried to comfort her. "That's it. Beautiful. Keep going."

Each word of his, once filled with tenderness, now felt like it was struggling to break free from the shadows that surrounded them. The space around her seemed to close in, like the walls were inching forward, threatening to crush the delicate air that remained.

As she began to find her rhythm, the dream shifted abruptly.

The room that had been comforting and colorful now vanished into blinding, white stage lights. They hit her like a wave, bright and harsh, pushing everything else into darkness. She found herself at another piano, older now, her hands poised over the keys. Her body tensed. Rows of faceless figures stretched before her, an endless sea of silent onlookers who seemed to be swallowing the light, leaving only a deep, suffocating void.

To her left, her father and mother sat in the audience. The sharpness of their features was starting to fade, as though their faces were too blurry to hold onto. Her father's gaze was still intense, still kind, but his eyes seemed to sink deeper into shadow, his face blurring in the heat of the spotlight. Beside him, her mother's regal posture faltered, her smile growing more strained, her expression harder to read.

They were waiting. Everyone was waiting. The pressure was suffocating, thickening the very air she breathed. Her fingers trembled, hovering over the keys.

At first, it was just the piano. Her father's encouragement was soft, and her mother's guidance gentle. But soon, their words grew quieter, the edges of their voices fuzzing out as if swallowed by the darkness creeping in around her. The room seemed to shift beneath her feet, the soft plush carpet now hard and jagged underfoot. The warmth that had once suffused the space turned cold and distant.

"You can do better," her father's voice came from the distance, his tone now harsh, devoid of warmth, a cruel contrast to the supportive whispers she once knew. "You need to be flawless if you want to succeed like me."

Her mother, too, had lost her gentle touch. What once were pleasant afternoons in the kitchen—laughing as they baked cookies or prepared meals—had turned to critical commands. "No, not like that," her mother snapped, the words sharp and unyielding. She grabbed the knife from her hand, her fingers cold and stiff as she demonstrated the "proper" technique. "You'll ruin the dish if you're careless. Start over."

The academy had once been a place of quiet achievement, but now even the awards seemed to fade into nothingness. "Second isn't first," her father said one evening when she showed him her report card, his smile tight, strained. "We know you can do better."

Her mother's sigh that followed was a heavy, aching sound, carrying a weight that pressed harder on her chest with every breath. "Your talent is wasted if you're not at the top. You're better than this."

Day after day, the tasks grew more impossible to master. Piano practice stretched into hours, but the notes became a blur, and the keys, once familiar, felt slick and distant beneath her fingers. Language drills consumed her mornings, but the words jumbled together into indecipherable sounds. Afternoons were lessons in etiquette, cooking, or academics, all demanding perfection. The evenings were a torrent of relentless homework and ceaseless critiques.

"You're not focusing hard enough," her father said one night, his voice barely rising above the murmurs of the world closing in around her. His face was distorted in the dim light, more shadow than flesh. His words, no longer supportive, were cold and cutting. "There are no excuses for mediocrity."

Even when she tried her best, their approval felt fleeting, always just out of reach. The smallest mistake became an indictment, and their love—once a gentle presence—had transformed into something cold and unforgiving. It was a force that pushed and pulled, twisting every success into a failure in disguise.

She sat alone in the dim room, the weight of silence pressing down on her. The walls, once vivid, had begun to crack, the paint peeling away in large chunks. The air was no longer thick with warmth, but chilled and hollow, as though the very space around her had begun to wither away.

She stared at her hands, fingers trembling slightly. The faint calluses from years of piano practice were still visible, but they no longer felt like proof of her hard work. Instead, they felt like a reminder of everything she had failed to achieve. The warmth of the room, the comforting hues, had decayed into the empty, harsh shadows that clung to the corners of the space, suffocating her.

Why can't I be good enough? The thought whispered through her mind, cruel and unyielding. No matter how hard she tried, there was always something more she could have done. A higher note to hit, a better grade to earn, a sharper technique to master. It was never enough, and she hated herself for it.

She hated how her father's encouraging words had turned into curt commands, how her mother's gentle guidance had morphed into sharp corrections. But more than anything, she hated how she still craved their approval despite it all.

"I should've tried harder," she muttered, her voice breaking. Her chest tightened, her throat burning as tears threatened to spill. Every failure replayed in her mind—the missed notes, the second-place trophies, the tiny mistakes that loomed so large under her parents' scrutiny.

She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. Maybe they're right. Maybe I'm just not good enough.

The thought twisted in her gut. She wanted to believe she could do better, that she could reach their expectations someday. But doubt clawed at her, whispering that she'd never be able to.

Yet, even through the haze of despair, a small, stubborn yearning burned inside her. She wanted them to see her—not as the girl who wasn't enough, but as someone who mattered. Someone worthy of their pride.

If I could just... make them proud, she thought, the yearning turning into an ache. Just once. If I could be the best at something, they'd finally see me. They'd finally...

Her lips trembled, and she let out a shaky breath. She knew she shouldn't care so much. She shouldn't want their recognition so badly. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop herself from longing for it.

She stood before the drafting table, her pencil trembling in her grip. The blueprint was a mess of smudges and errors, the numbers slipping from her mind like water. Her father's voice boomed behind her, sharp and heavy.

"Is this the best you can do? Hours wasted for this?"

Her heart raced, her breaths shallow. She tried to correct a line, but her hand shook too much. His sigh was like a dagger to her chest.

The scene shifted violently.

She was in the study, reciting equations in a language that tied her tongue. Her mother's icy gaze bore into her, every mispronounced syllable tightening the air.

"Again!" her mother snapped, her tone cutting and relentless.

The pressure in her head swelled as she stumbled over the words, her voice cracking.

"You're hopeless," her mother hissed. "Can't you do anything right?"

The walls blurred, pulling her into the final blow.

She stood in the doorway, her parents' backs turned to her, suitcases in hand.

Her father didn't look back. "You've failed us. There's no point staying any longer."

Her mother's words came like a final lash. "You're nothing but a disappointment, Hannah Kensington."

"No! Please!" she cried, reaching out, but the door slammed shut.

Her chest felt like it might collapse as darkness swallowed her whole—

And then she woke, gasping, drenched in sweat, the echo of the door still slamming in her ears. Her trembling hands covered her face as her sobs filled the silence.