Deacon clenched his fist, enjoying the temporary relief as he heard his knuckles crackle. He stretched his fingers admiring them temporarily. They were different from that of normal men. Long and thin, but not disfigured in any sense. Delicate, would be a word to describe such hands. Elegant perhaps would also be another word associated with it. Deacon stared at his hands for some time, he imagined that they were the kind of hands that a skilled surgeon would acquire. Or perhaps that of a pianist. Million dollar hands Deacon thought to himself sarcastically as he turned back to the piano in front of him.
Throughout the world, the mere mention of his name was often associated with thoughts of greatness, and a skill with the piano that unrivalled many. He had been dubbed the Beethoven of the 20th Century recently by an esteemed reviewer. With that god like status amongst the music world came power and with power came wealth. Deacon was still young, his raven black hair was short and spiked, whilst his lean figure and slightly feminine face had launched his god-like musical status amongst the classical arena into that of a rock star. Companies lined up at his door begging him for ad campaigns, appearances at events and various other charity concerts. He had sex appeal, class, and a demeanour that appealed to millions. It was this that had effectively revived the image of classical music. Breathing in a new breath of fresh air into the stale stereotyped images of an audience consisting of old men with atrocious British accents paired with women of the same age with an equally worse accent.
But it was his eye's that captivated millions worldwide. Deacon was blind. His eyes by themselves though were just as unique as his talent was. They were violet in colour. The colours changed with his mood, at times they appeared as a light lavender colour when he was in mellower moods, but other times they changed to a brilliantly vivid violet with specks of azure throughout it; especially when playing. It was this vulnerability, this disability that had made Deacon such a successful commodity, not only had he mastered his disability, he had done what others with sight could not. If eyes are the window to one's soul, then Deacons soul was barricaded and impenetrable.
With the lost of his sight however, Deacon had adapted his other senses to compensate. For example his hearing was extremely sensitive, he could hear a pin drop from the other side of the room and his hands were, well million dollar hands.
His skills did not just lay with his music though. Deacon had bedded many women in his time; one of the many perks of being so sought after. He was a voracious lover and quite well attuned to the female body. Their moans of pleasure sent him into a world of enrapture as their bodies moved and flowed like music. Their rhythm building up in crescendo before slowing down, only to build up once again. But although he had enjoyed the physical contact, he had never grown emotionally attached to any of them. It was in his contract and he never felt the need.
Deacon massaged the sides of his temples, they ached dully from his fervent concentration. Counting inside his head, his fingers floated across the ivory keys of the piano. A haunting melody rose to his ears as he continued to play, his fingers a flurry across the keys as the song continued to play in his head. His fingers complimented his thoughts until he reached that same blank spot in the song. The same blank spot that had haunted him for years on end. His fingers froze temporarily with his blank thought. In an attempt to fill the blank void that had enveloped his train of thought his finger's flew across the keys, but the more he played, the worse it sounded until it reached to the point where he could take it no longer. Deacon swore out loudly as his hand clenched, bashing down upon the keys as they voiced their disapproval. The sound of notes chaotically fusing together to beat down upon his ears.
Grabbing the glass of half full red wine on the piano, Deacon took a large drink from it, draining the contents of the glass. His mind began to pound; he was feeling the effects of the alcohol as his senses began to swim. He lifted up the receiver of the phone perched besides his piano.
"Hello?" a voice answered from the other line, the voice was formal with a slight British epitome lingering throughout it.
-"Yes, John can you get me two paracetamol's and my jacket? I need to clear my head with a walk."
"Yes sir, shall I wake the driver?"
-"No that wont be necessary, I'll walk."
Deacon stood up, stretching his back. His legs ached as did his lower back. He could have easily gotten the things himself, he knew the house inside out. But he did pay his staff handsome wages after all, well his company did. The butler knocked softly at the door and entered the room carrying a tray with two pills and a glass of water. Deacon took the tablets from the butler thankfully and drained the glass of water. The butler handed Deacon his jacket, which he slung over his shoulder. Two pairs of footsteps barely audible against the plush carpet entered the room. Deacon looked at John and raised an eyebrow.
-"I did not ask for bodyguards."
