A story I wrote in the middle of the night, inspired by various things that have been happening in my life and other people's lives. I have only recently gotten into short story writing, and I have come back from a LONG break of writing.
Every day he would wake up in the morning at six am, and brush his teeth before changing into his work clothes - often his black pants and favourite blue, striped business shirt and black tie.
At exactly ten past six he would fill his kettle with water, and set two pieces of toast in the toaster. Breakfast was finished by half past six, with just enough time to dress for work, and catch the seven o’clock bus.
Day in day out, the routine would not change - unless it was a Saturday or Sunday, in which case he would wake up two hours later and instead of going to work, stay at home and play his guitar.
Aside from his work, which made up basically his whole life, guitar filled his empty time with sweet whispery chords, or heavy rhythm based blues. It was his passion and only hobby - an interest which had spanned since his childhood.
Music had been enabled him to escape into a world with no rules - a world with no certainty and a world with absolute freedom - a place for fantasies to grow and the mind to explore. Moreover, it provided him the escape he always dreamt about - the one thing which kept him sane in a world otherwise filled with strictness and rigidity.
He never really had time for other things - often work took up most of his time during the week. As a result, he really didn’t have many close friends, and so hardly went out with anyone, or communicated with anyone outside of work. It was a life so often filled with boundaries and rules that he often questioned what life was for, and what he was supposed to do in the world. These many questions influenced him in his work and his music; they pervaded all of his thoughts and forced him to look at the world with eyes on his goals and aspirations - eyes on his actions in his life. Every week he would come up with a different song on his guitar, but often forgot it the week after due to his insistence on not writing music down. Not that he couldn’t, but he wouldn’t. Writing music down made everything seem to structured - so forced, that he just often let the notes flow freely from his head every time he sat down and started playing.
One hot Sunday, he decided to bring his guitar to the park and play near the lake. It was a place he often went to during his lunch breaks at work, and had a sense of tranquility and peace there which provided a stark contrast to the grey concrete walls of his office. Walking to the bus stop twenty meters from his house, he carried his guitar on his back while holding a bag full of papers in a small black bag - he also hoped to finish some paperwork on that day. Setting his bag down on the green weathered bench, he sat down and waited, his guitar to one side. He glanced at his watch: 11:43. Six more minutes.
A shadow suddenly glanced past him, and he looked up.
“Mind if I sit here?”
A rosy cheeked brunette questioned, smiling at him. He nodded and gestured for her to sit, moving his guitar in the process.
“Where you off to with your guitar?” she inquired, tilting her head. He noticed how the sun shined through her hair, making it gleam and sparkle. Her hazel eyes glowed with warmth; ultimately unnerving him to the point of him taking a few seconds before he realized she was talking to him.
“Oh nowhere important...just the park. I find a lot of inspiration there, for my music and stuff...” He answered, slightly embarassed.
She laughed, which sounded like light tinkling bells.
“I love music. I don’t play guitar but I love watching people play it. It just looks so easy, but it isn’t is it?”
He shrugged. “Well it depends. Practice makes perfect. Like everything else.” He smiled awkwardly, and turned away slightly.
“Yes that’s true...you know I’ve always wanted to learn guitar. Or any instrument. I just love music...it’s one of this world’s few luxuries. You can just let music take you away to where ever you want to go, and you’re there...” She looked off into the distance and for a moment, she looked troubled, vulnerable. Only a second later, she was smiling back at him, and looked past his shoulder.
“I think that’s our bus.” She stood up. He stood up along with her and began queueing to get in. All the seats were full, so they both had to stand with him awkwardly holding his guitar as the bus shuffled along the busy road.
They wordlessly stood next to each other, but as he got off at his stop at the park, she looked at him.
“I hope you find all the inspiration you need.” She smiled at him warmly and moved to the side to let him pass.
He looked at her for a second, and smiled back, before stepping onto the side pavement.
Hurrying off the bus, he walked towards the park and onto the green grass and smelt the fresh air. That encounter was strange. It had never happened to him before - a person approaching him on a topic so random - something which so affected his thoughts. She was a nice girl, he concluded. There really are good people in this world, he thought while sighing inwardly. It’s too bad the majority aren’t.
Sitting down on the damp grass, he began to play whatever came to his head. Melodies filled the air normally pervaded by silence, and it soon relaxed him into a state of wonderment and dreaming. The place really did inspire him - it was something about the way the clouds moved there, and the way the water reflected off the sky. The tree leaves would rustle in the wind and blow about onto the grass, which then caused the birds to scurry and fly off into the distance. The tranquility of the park calmed him, and although he had no forethought of the structure of his songs, he knew each note and when to play them.
Hours later, the sun was setting, and the birds were heading into the tall trees to roost for the night. The sky was striped pink and gold, with hints of blue and grey, altogether creating a spectacular sunset. he sat back, leaning against a tree while gazing at the landscape before him. He was going to miss it. Sighing, he leaned for his black bag, and took out his papers. Turning a leaf over, he leaned against his black notebook and began writing. It was all dark, before he finished writing. The lamp had turned on, and fluorescent light replaced the natural sunlight which had streamed onto him earlier on. With his note finished, he replaced all his papers in the bag and stood up to leave. Gathering all the loose papers, he shoved them hastily in his bag and stood up to leave. Not realizing he had left his guitar pick behind, he trudged home, his guitar slung over his back. It was eight o’clock before he reached home.
Switching on the light in his apartment, he set down his guitar and bag on the table. The main light flickered on and off, frustrating him to the point he turned it off. Taking out his papers, he laid them on the table and went into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. A few minutes later, he emerged, holding a steaming cup of black liquid and an orange vial filled with small white tablets. He sat down at the table and stared at the paper he had written on. It was all so structured, so arranged, so final. He frowned, and sipped some of his coffee. He had finished it all before he even contemplated the consequences of his actions. Twirling the vial in his hands, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He would have to go to work tomorrow, and he frankly had no intention of going. Closing his eyes, he let out a long breath, and let sleep take over; in a room so dim it almost looked poetic - a middle aged, balding man asleep in his chair in the dining room, surrounded by almost total darkness.
He woke up the next day with an incredibly sore neck, and a stiff, aching back. He groaned, and instinctively looked at his watch. 7:42. He was already late for work. He double checked his watch, and cursed. He made a mad dash for his change of clothes, and hurried down the stairs to the bus stop. For the first time in years, he was late for work. Inside, he felt like he had just woken up from the worst hangover possible. His eyes were bleary, his thoughts swirled with emotions and thoughts. Pushing them out of his mind, he rushed towards his office, all the while wondering what could have been.
The week continued with him living like a zombie - alive in essence but dead in feeling and emotion. By Friday, he felt thoroughly drained - of life and spirit. He sat down heavily onto the couch after work, glad the week was finally over. Picking up the phone he began dialing.
“Hello, could I speak to Doctor Evans please.”
“One second please.”
Hold music filled his ears. Greensleeves. Typical. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds.
“Hello, Doctor Evans speaking.”
“Hi, I just wanted to let you know the medication you gave me isn’t working. I don’t know where you got your medical certificate from, but it’s not bloody helping me at all.”
He raised his voice at the end, his realization tinged with panic and despair.
“Okay, well could I have your name please? I have my files here somewhere...”
The sound of shuffling could be heard, and the banging of drawers.
“I told you it’s not working. It doesn’t do one bloody thing. I really thought you could help me, but obviously you can’t. Do you even recognize my voice!?”
He was now shouting into the receiver, his eyes mad with terror.
“Whoa, calm down sir. Look just take a deep breath and take a moment first.”
“Look, if this is just one of your bullshit methods at getting me to calm down, its not working. Nothing’s working. Thanks a lot for your help but I really don’t think I should see you anymore.”
He placed the phone back in the receiver and began sobbing, clutching his arms around his sides. It was a sad sight - a man curled up on the floor, shoulders shaking from his sheer fright at the thought that he was thoroughly alone in the world.
Getting up suddenly, he grabbed the orange vial from the table, and tipped the contents out. White pills spilled everywhere on the floor, raining down like hail. He grabbed them a few at a time, and after gathering a handful, staggered to the kitchen sink and leaned heavily against it.
Tears streaked down his cheeks as he paused and stared at them in his hand - tiny, seemingly harmless little white pills. He groaned and as soon as he was about to shove them all in his mouth, he wrenched his hand away and threw them all against the wall. The pattered harmlessly off, bouncing under the table and in between the cracks of the cupboards.
He ran his hand through his hair and turned on the tap, splashing water onto his face. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply, again, and again. After a few minutes, he sighed and glanced at his guitar. It lay there, unmoving, a symbol of escape in a reality of chaos, pain and loneliness.
He picked up his guitar and went into his bedroom, kicking the door shut. Sitting down on his soft bed, he began to strum different chords. All in a moment, a melody began filling the air, and he at once calmed down. Playing the guitar, he lost all sense of time and meaning, with his spirit pouring into his music while he played endlessly into the night. It helped him escape the fact that he nearly had lost it that night - that he nearly had escaped the structures and boundaries that held him so tight. Only he now realized he didn’t need all those pills to achieve that. His guitar did it all for him.
He saw her on Sunday again, when he walked back from the shops just a few blocks away. Passing by the bus stop, he recognized the dark brown hair and hazel eyes, and he hesitated for a moment.
“Hi again..” he said to her uncertainly, stopping next to the bus stop, shifting feet to alternate the weight of the shopping bags.
She glanced up at him.
“Oh hey there! It’s nice to see you again.” she smiled at him.
“Yeah, same to you. I was just finishing shopping.” He nodded his head back towards the shops and she nodded.
“Oh well, I figured you’d be out playing your guitar, but instead you go out shopping.” she replied in mock horror.
He laughed slightly. “I’m still playing. All my free time I play.” he replied hesitantly, and shifted his feet again.
An awkward silence stretched between them both.
“Well I’d love to hear you play sometime.” She looked at him, a questioning look in her eyes.
“Oh sure. Sure. That’d be great. Only I have to finish off some work, but maybe next week sometime? I’m just really busy with this project I’m working on...”
“Oh okay...yeah that’s cool.” She looked disappointed, but tried not to show it.
“Okay, well next week it is. I’ll hold you to that. Shall we meet here at say, 2pm?”
He nodded, and smiled. “Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”
She smiled back at him. “Maybe you can teach me to play.” She laughed playfully.
“Maybe.” He laughed, and began heading towards his apartment.
“Don’t forget...!” she called back to him as he headed off.
He acknowledged her and smiled again, before starting walking again. He couldn’t help but notice the slightest hint of desperation in her voice.
The next Sunday soon came, and he found himself swamped with work. Not only that, but an important company meeting for the major project forced him to cancel his appointment with the brunette girl. Realizing he didn’t have her phone number, let alone her name, he scribbled a note on a sheet of paper before racing down to the bus stop and taping it to the green bench. It was still early in the day - he only hoped it would survive long enough for the girl to read it. Racing back to his apartment, he hurriedly dressed appropriately and took the bus into the city.
It all looked the same. All the buildings, and all the roads. He knew the place like the back of his hand, and it made him realize just how long he had actually worked in the same company, in the same building for more than fifteen years. It made him feel old.
Looking out the scratched bus window, he watched vehicles fly past as they rushed off to their own destinations. The rat race was alive and well inside this city.
By the time he got back from the meeting, it was seven and the sun had almost set. He examined the green bench, and found the note he had left was still intact. Frowning, he bent and lifted the tape off the bench, ripping off flecks of paint in the process.
“Hi,
Sorry I can’t make it today but I am absolutely busy with work and everything else. I hope you understand. I hope we can meet next week though, if you’re still interested.”
Underneath the note, someone had scribbled something.
He squinted at the writing.
“Get a phone, loser.” He looked up and felt taken aback. It couldn’t be her. It was probably a random person, with nothing better to do.
He looked again, and turned the paper around. On the back she had written something in a purple felt pen.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t make it. I was looking forward to hearing you play. I’ll be waiting next week. ;)”
He instantly felt relieved - that she wasn’t, or didn’t seem mad that he had postponed their appointment for something as inane as a company meeting. He sighed and crumpled up the piece of paper and threw it in the bin as he locked his apartment door. He would meet her next Sunday. No matter what.
His Saturday morning was interrupted shortly by the sound of wailing sirens outside his window. Blearily closing his eyes, he dove deeper under the covers. It was not 10:30 before he got out of bed and began brushing his teeth. He went down the the grocers to buy some food for breakfast, and paused to stop to look at the newspaper. Scanning it, he tucked it under his arm and paid for his goods, and headed home.
Sitting at the table, he opened the newspaper, and began reading as he filled his bowl of cereal with ice cold milk.
Celebrity hairstyles. Boring. A new building to be built in honor of the city mayor. Boring. Fire burns down small business. Hmm, interesting.
All of a sudden a picture caught his eye. It was the girl, the one he had met three weeks earlier. Her hair shined in the light, and her eyes were the same warm brown/green that had captivated him.
“‘Latest Suicide Victim Highlights Country’s Spiraling Health System’
He looked on in horror and disbelief as he read the following article. Miranda Chesky, 20, commits suicide at the popular teen hangout, Red Rock Cliffs, Friday night. Depression rate at an all time high. Depression now linked to teenagers. Is our health system doing enough?”
He let out a huge groan and shook his head, not believing the words written in front of him. He pushed the newspaper away, now feeling sick, the soggy cereal settling heavily in his stomach. Shaking, he put his head in his hands and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. It just wasn’t her. It couldn’t be. She seemed so carefree, so warm, so happy. He didn’t understand. How did this happen to her, of all people? Not her too...
He looked up and spied the pages he had written on earlier, on the day he had met Miranda at the bus stop. Looking at them now, he was filled with disgust and rage, at himself, and at her. Standing up he picked up the pages stained with black ink, and shredded them into pieces with his hands before throwing them into the bin. He shook his head, and cried for her, standing at the sink, leaning against the finished steel. He understood her pain, her feeling of desperation and alienation in a world so impersonal, and so cold. He had been there, and he was still fighting to keep these feelings at bay. And he felt guilt; guilt that he should have ignored her hints at needing someone to talk to, that he should have denied her the right to listening to music - pure and untouched by materialism or consumerism. It all broke his heart, and filled him with such a terrible feeling of regret and remorse. If only he had met her on that last Sunday. If only he had stayed and talked with her instead of going up to his apartment, alone. If only.
It never ceased to amaze him. How something so invisible and dangerous could affect someone so completely, no matter what kind of person they were. It was like an undetectable virus, weaving its way through society and infecting the people least assumed to be affected by it.
He stood up straight, and looked once more at the newspaper. It was her, no doubt about it. He sighed shakily and gathered the newspaper, throwing it in the bin. His soggy cereal now sat on the table, with most of the flakes already sinking to the bottom. He grabbed his guitar and headed out the door.
Stopping by his mailbox, he instinctively turned and opened the lid a bit. Inside was a piece of paper, with purple writing scribbled onto it.
He reached in and grabbed it, already knowing who had left it there before he even began reading it.
“I’ve been an idiot, and I never even got to know your name. I saw you go to your apartment though, so I’m hoping this will get to you in safe hands.
When I first saw you, I knew you and I had something in common. I don’t know what it was, but I feel like you will know what I’m talking about. All my life, its been filled with all sorts of wrong decisions and dead ends. I know you can relate to this. But you have a gift. I knew it when I saw you carrying that guitar. Its the gift of music - and you have no idea how powerful that is. Some people just take it for granted, and turn it on and plug in all the while not knowing what it actually means. You have no idea how much I want to escape from this world, this reality. I just want to be free. I want to be in a place where I can be myself, where I can act without the threats and dangers of today’s world. I know this all sounds very philosophical, but believe me when you’ve been in my shoes you just think about these things, every day.
Anyway, I suppose you already know what I will do, or what I intend to do. I know you’ll think back to last week, and perhaps wonder what would have happened if we had met. Well, who knows, for sure? It’s in the past. I gained a lot from talking to you though, and I’m sure you are extremely talented at playing the guitar.
Don’t stop playing. Ever.
Gifts are supposed to be used. Don’t ever ignore it.
Play your guitar, whenever you can, wherever you can. It’s the gift of music that keeps us living, I believe, and enables us to escape if only for a little while. That has got to be worth something right?”
A guitar pick was taped awkwardly to the piece of paper. It was dark grey and had a yellow music note imprinted in the center. He let out a short laugh, hardly believing it was the same guitar pick he had dropped in the park a few weeks earlier. Although it now looked weathered and scratched, the pick as a whole was timeless. He looked at the note again, and folded it firmly, tucking it in his pocket. Putting the pick safely in his other, he walked off to the bus stop with his guitar on his back. He intended to go to the park that day, and watch the sun set once again.