He tries to find the note, but it is like searching for something that doesn't exist. The light feels blinding, The throbbing behind his eyes is mind numbing, but still he searched.
The guitar drops onto the guitar rack as he pulls out a bottle of pills. He pops a couple to relieve the tension building behind his eyes, but it will take quite some time before the relief comes. An argument forms inside his mind - does he give up on it all or does he fight to hold onto what he cherishes.
The keyboard, perhaps, will be easier to find the tune he searches for, so he sits at the bench. His hands can't even reach for the keys - the effort feels to be too much as his eyes feel as though they are bulging out of his skull.
Years ago, it was discovered that he typed best while he wasn't looking. It was as though he could sense the keys before they struck, and he could correct as he went along. He opens his laptop and begins to type up a story, or song lyrics, or even simply words to fill up a page; however, as his eyes open, they reveal little more than a blank page.
A memory appears as though it is filling the entire room. A woman rolling her eyes and speaking about how much time and money are wasted on these instruments. She takes a violin and smashes it into the desk, shattering it into a million pieces. The words become more sympathetic, but not towards him. "You are ruining our lives."
His eyes open again to reveal the keyboard in front of him still, but once again he does not reach forward. He gets up and walks to his room without the note or tune being explored.
The bright light is still intensifying the pain behind his eyes.
Another memory - this one of a better time, a time of hope - fills his mind. The notes come easy no matter what instruments he picks up, and he can hear them fitting so perfectly. The beat he devours into on drums and the rhythm of the bass set the mood. Synthesizer adds more atmosphere. The melody of the lead guitar adds a real punch. It doesn't even feel real at this point.
A lump works it's way up his throat before he swallows it back down. It is a hard swallow, but he presses forward with it and it slowly reaches back down to his stomach.
An image of the broken violin fills his mind again. Maybe this is what he should be doing, but he has lost everything else anyway.
The headache has started to reside, but still fills a very prominent space.
"Not tonight," he tells himself. "Not fucking tonight." He presses a key on the keyboard and it rings out, but it still doesn't fit what he is trying to find. A chord, but still wrong. He tries another position, but still wrong. He glances back at the guitar, but interest just doesn't come.
His head still has yet to escape the pain. He closes his eyes one more time, reaching his finger and thumb to squeeze the bridge of his nose. It helps slightly, but there is too much pain. His eyes open, he gets off of the bench, and walks out of the room - flipping the light switch as he exits.
Stumbling through the pitch black hall, feeling the walls for guidance, he eventually finds his bedroom. His head hurts so badly that he refuses to even so much as turn on the light. He knows where the bed is, he plops down into bed, and closes his eyes for one final time tonight. Memories of the arguments, the broken violin, the feeling of worthlessness do not grant him the same luxury.
-Dustin S. Stover
The guitar drops onto the guitar rack as he pulls out a bottle of pills. He pops a couple to relieve the tension building behind his eyes, but it will take quite some time before the relief comes. An argument forms inside his mind - does he give up on it all or does he fight to hold onto what he cherishes.
The keyboard, perhaps, will be easier to find the tune he searches for, so he sits at the bench. His hands can't even reach for the keys - the effort feels to be too much as his eyes feel as though they are bulging out of his skull.
Years ago, it was discovered that he typed best while he wasn't looking. It was as though he could sense the keys before they struck, and he could correct as he went along. He opens his laptop and begins to type up a story, or song lyrics, or even simply words to fill up a page; however, as his eyes open, they reveal little more than a blank page.
A memory appears as though it is filling the entire room. A woman rolling her eyes and speaking about how much time and money are wasted on these instruments. She takes a violin and smashes it into the desk, shattering it into a million pieces. The words become more sympathetic, but not towards him. "You are ruining our lives."
His eyes open again to reveal the keyboard in front of him still, but once again he does not reach forward. He gets up and walks to his room without the note or tune being explored.
The bright light is still intensifying the pain behind his eyes.
Another memory - this one of a better time, a time of hope - fills his mind. The notes come easy no matter what instruments he picks up, and he can hear them fitting so perfectly. The beat he devours into on drums and the rhythm of the bass set the mood. Synthesizer adds more atmosphere. The melody of the lead guitar adds a real punch. It doesn't even feel real at this point.
A lump works it's way up his throat before he swallows it back down. It is a hard swallow, but he presses forward with it and it slowly reaches back down to his stomach.
An image of the broken violin fills his mind again. Maybe this is what he should be doing, but he has lost everything else anyway.
The headache has started to reside, but still fills a very prominent space.
"Not tonight," he tells himself. "Not fucking tonight." He presses a key on the keyboard and it rings out, but it still doesn't fit what he is trying to find. A chord, but still wrong. He tries another position, but still wrong. He glances back at the guitar, but interest just doesn't come.
His head still has yet to escape the pain. He closes his eyes one more time, reaching his finger and thumb to squeeze the bridge of his nose. It helps slightly, but there is too much pain. His eyes open, he gets off of the bench, and walks out of the room - flipping the light switch as he exits.
Stumbling through the pitch black hall, feeling the walls for guidance, he eventually finds his bedroom. His head hurts so badly that he refuses to even so much as turn on the light. He knows where the bed is, he plops down into bed, and closes his eyes for one final time tonight. Memories of the arguments, the broken violin, the feeling of worthlessness do not grant him the same luxury.
-Dustin S. Stover
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