Owner

My owner was a young man when we first met. He was in school at the time, staying upstairs at His mother’s quaint suburban house. His mother was an older, church-going pianist with gentle eyes and whitening hair. I was four when my mother first started dropping me and my sister off there every Saturday morning for piano lessons.

We would stay for at least two hours. My sister would go first because she was impatient, and her piano skills needed more work. I would amuse myself amidst the common spaces of the house while she played, the kindly teacher parked next to her on the bench. As weeks went by, I found myself drawn to the stairs to the second floor; they were covered in stacks of books and papers that I would peer at curiously and pretend to read. Somedays, when I was feeling extra curious, I would climb all the way to the top of the stairs.

His door would be closed until He heard me on the top of the staircase. Then, He would swing it open and wave me in, like He had a secret to tell me.

His room was small: a bed against the wall, a desk, a chair, and lots of boxes as if he was moving. It was always messy, papers strewn everything. His ceiling was white and powdery. I remember it well because I would stare up at that blank expanse and disappear into my mind while He was touching me. He would lay me down on his bed, hike up my dress, and just stare down at me for what felt like eons. He would say nice things (“You play piano so well,” “You’re such a good listener”), then mean things (“This is what you’re best at,” “You’re a bad little girl”), then things that made me recognize who owned me. I’ll never forget the way He said “You’re mine”—like I was an object, a prize, a conquest. When He’d say it like that, everything would drift away, and I would stop existing.

From downstairs, there came the constant plucking of piano keys.