Why did his words hit so fucking deep?
You can’t fake that, right?
He’s good at what he does. Plus he’s kind when I’m a prick. I shouldn't call him rookie anymore. He's proved himself not to be a rookie at all.
I rest my elbows on my knees and peek down at the beach. It’s way below me, a skinny strip of sand between the cliffs and the sea.
The dark mahogany Fender in my lap isn’t cooperating. I’ve been tuning it for at least half an hour now. Twisting pegs, adjusting, testing.
I’ve done it hundreds of times before. It’s more or less routine work, so why does it sound so fucking out of tune?
I sigh and push myself up. I know why. I’m out of tune. For nearly three months now.
I clench my fists. This is so frustrating. Will it ever get any better?
I squeeze my eyes shut as I feel the black, smoky claws of the silence creep over my spine, wrapping like a noose around my neck, whispering.
Why the hell did you say so much?
You’ve gone too far. He’s not supposed to know. No one is supposed to know.
My chest locks up.No, please. Not now. Please.
I rub my face in an attempt to scrub the feeling off. But it stays. The panic. The restlessness. The craving.
I need a drink.
God, I need it. I fucking need it.
Except, there’s none. No bottle. No burning sensation on my tongue. No escape. Just me, trapped in this fucking place.
My hands shake. My teeth clench. I feel pressure building inside me until a raw, guttural scream tears out of my chest, echoing into the night.
It’s not enough.
I hit the wall, my knuckles slamming into the stone, a sharp pain exploding up my arm.
I hit it again. Harder.
Blood smears the limestone as I won't stop. I can’t.
I keep going, fists slamming until everything blurs together in a mess of red and white.
My chest heaves and my whole body feels like it’s on fire.
I see my guitar.
My beautiful, stupid fucking guitar. The one I spent half an hour tuning like I actually believed music could fix me.
I grab it by the neck and lift it off the chair. It feels warm in my hands.
Not for much long.
I swing it over the terrace wall, right off the cliff.
My hands are stinging, knuckles slick with red.
I climb onto the wall, my bare feet on the rough stones.
