Strings Attached

Chapter Four

The shrieking of metal grinding against metal and the screams of unadulterated agony still ring in my ears. I've been awake for the past ten minutes, staring at the ceiling of my room, trying to force a nightmare that lies too close in similarity to memories out of my head. The trails tears made down my cheeks are in the process of drying, leaving my face feeling stiff and raw.

I try to think about how today was a good day—I survived without having a mental break down. Elliott smiled today. Austin seemed to be a little more like his old self. Thinking of Austin dredges up images of his bruises and fear-inducing theories. Is he being bullied? Is he picking fights? Is the only reason he flirted with Missy was to piss off her boyfriend? My breathing becomes more ragged than it was before. I need to do something, to get out of my head, or else I'll drive myself insane and make things worse by doing something dumb.

The bright, bold numbers on my alarm clock tell me it's a quarter after one. While I might be reckless and desperate right now, I am not desperate enough to go running at this hour. Lucy would throttle me if I did. My body sags with exhaustion even though sleep is the thing that is furthest out of my reach, taunting me, and I begin to crave the starburst of energy that I get once caffeine is in my system.

My need intensifies as I creep downstairs, careful not to wake anyone else up, in order to make some coffee. The old steps creak and groan underneath my feet, and I hold my breath the whole time. Lucy and my brothers are heavy sleepers, oblivious to anything and everything when they're unconscious, but my mom was always a light sleeper—like I used to be when I actually got sleep—and would've heard me the instant I got on the stairs. Part of me is glad no one wakes up at my early activity because that would lead to questions I don't want to answer; the other part of me does want to be caught because that would mean my mom is still around. I try to bury that thought deep inside my mind where it will do the least amount of damage as I stare at the coffee maker as it hums to life.

When I first expressed interest in drinking coffee, my mom had a fit. Even though she was a physical therapist, she had read somewhere in a medical journal that drinking coffee stunted growth in height. She threatened me by saying I'll be five foot five for the rest of my life if I took up drinking coffee as a habit, and here I am today, no taller than I was then. I don't need to wonder what she would think of what I'm doing now, if she would understand or tell me to swallow my pride and ask for help, but I can't think of any other way to get through life with some semblance of sanity at the moment.

Mug in hand, I make my way to the basement, know it is the best place to be able to anything I need to in order to not drown in my own thoughts. Cool, slightly musty air settles on me as I descend into the place that was dubbed my dad's lair of music. Here, he would teach kids how to play piano or guitar—his own children were never his students, though; we were all in love with soccer and never got around to learning. Now I wish I had taken the time. He always said that he never minded, that he was happy that we loved soccer as much as Mom did, but I know that it would have made him ecstatic if one of us had just tried a little harder to learn how to play something as simple as a chord.

I settle into the old, overstuffed recliner that Dad always loved to "contemplate deep thoughts with his eyes shut" or, for the rest of the world, sleep in on lazy Sunday afternoons. The atrociously patterned upholstery is soft from use and pockmarked with the odd food stain, the scent of Dad's cologne faintly lingering on it. Tucking my feet under me, I stare at the opposite wall where our old Yamaha piano is situated. Next to it are two stools, some music stands, and his trusty acoustic guitar he affectionately referred to as Caroline, named after the song "Sweet Caroline" for a reason he would never explain. Caroline's strap is a strip of royal blue fabric that has become worn and faded over time and heavy usage, and the letters JW, standing for Jack Walker, are carved in the guitar's elegant neck. Closing my eyes, I think about how many times I've seen Dad playing his guitar: all the times we were sick, he'd sing to us; when he was giving lessons, smiling as he adjusted his student's finger placement; he would always sneak down to the basement when he had a free moment, and I would sit on the steps and listen to him play; and when he would have his old bandmates over for a jam session.

Tears well up in my eyes as the memories come racing back at a million miles per hour, hitting me like a runaway train, and I try to distract myself by looking through the collection of vintage records my dad kept on a shelf next to the recliner. My attempt fails miserably; my mind and eyes continuously wander only to land once more upon Caroline. An overwhelming urge, so powerful it feels like it's alive with its own force of will, to pick up the guitar strikes me.

My feet move of their own volition and I find myself doing just that—the feeling of Caroline in my hands feels foreign and oddly familiar at the same time. My fingers itch to strum the guitar, to make it play, so I can hear Dad play one more time, but I don't know how. Hand me a soccer ball and I can maneuver it across a field and away from opponents with ease, but hand me a musical instrument and I'm lost like a fish out of water. I've never hated the fact that I can't play more than I do right now.

I may have failed my father once by not learning what he loved, but I'll be damned if I spend the rest of my life as musically ignorant as I was on the last day he saw me. I am going to learn how to play the guitar if it is the last thing I do.