BROKEN STRINGS

  

Broken Strings

 It was dark and cold outside as the September wind hit the window pane. He took his guitar and started playing. He closed his eyes, lifted his head a bit higher and a smooth, tender sound escaped his throat. The guitar gave sweet sound as his fingers directed its strings. The continuous ticking of the clock on the wall provided background music. The air felt a bit warmer and the loneliness a lot less suffocating. He paused for a moment, took a sip of vodka from one of the glass that lay in the table and resumed his solo. He drifted in his thoughts about his past as he let the music flow through him. This time he wanted to play whatever the guitar wanted him to play. He sang happy and sad songs. He sang long and short songs. But whatever he did, he didn’t stop singing even though his throat ached. She had always told him that she loved to see him sing and hear him sing. She had said that he looked the most beautiful when he sang. So he wanted to look the most beautiful tonight. She had chosen someone else over him. He was ALONE!

He sang the sonnets he had written for her. He didn’t even have to read them; his memory had them clearly in it. He sang old songs and he made new ones. His finger bled but he didn’t care. What had happened had happened. So there was nothing to gain by grieving. So he played for accepting what was. He played for himself. He played for her and he played for them. After the strings broke off, he quietly took the gun from the table in his hand, put the nozzle to his temple and squeezed the trigger. His brains scattered all over the place as his body fell motionless.

             The next day, the police discovered two bodies in an apartment, one of a female with her heart punctured with a bullet and a guy with his brains all over the place, holding a guitar with broken strings.

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