Scratches // DNF

Chapter 12

Dream plucked the strings of his guitar to the ghost of a song he'd abandoned almost a year ago. I'd offered some stupid lyrics at the time, half-joking. But he'd grabbed his notepad and scribbled them down, honestly thanking me.

From then on he'd occasionally approach me with questions regarding which lyrics should go where, missing lines and a bunch of stuff I had no idea about. I was no musician, after all. Despite this, I offered my best, clueless responses and he seemed satisfied most of the time.

As I've only mentioned a couple times, I then died. I watched as my death thieved any motivation or desire he had to continue with the song. The unfinished piece was tossed into a pile to collect dust along with other unfinished or dead end ideas.

Well, until this night apparently. He'd dug through his pile of notes and found the rough draft of this song I'd half-helped with. It didn't have a name, it didn't even have a chorus. It was a shell of a song, written off before fully written.

He'd collapsed on the sofa with his guitar and a bottle of beer. He took a swig and unfolded the paper, reading the lyrics and tracing his fingers over the strings, trying to recall the chords.

George wasn't home that night. He was working one of the rare shifts in which Dream wasn't also on the rota to accompany him. Perhaps Dream thought this gave him a good opportunity to travel down memory lane, alone.

He began strumming the tune apprehensively. A wave of recognition hit from when I'd been by his side, tapping my foot along with the beat and praising him.

Things weren't much different. I was still by his side, tapping my foot and praising him. Only he didn't know that now.

He started singing quietly, his voice barely audible over the hissy guitar. He finished the first verse, still quiet and his vocals unwavering. The second verse contained a line I'd suggested. He briefly paused, but followed through with the lyric, unblinking. His voice noticeably became more brittle, as if ready to break down at any second.

The second lyric I'd suggested had been the final stick, supporting the dam of his feeling. It was something about regretting the final words you'd said to someone. As soon as the words tumbled from his tongue, the stick broke. He choked on the next lyric and let out a suppressed sob mid-strum. He'd tried to cling onto any control, but it was no use. A waterfall of emotion poured from his eyes and throat as he accepted defeat. He tossed the guitar to his side carelessly, collapsing into the back of the sofa with hands concealing eyes.

I couldn't deal with watching him cry without any ability to give comfort again. I'd seen it one too many times and it broke my heart on each and every occurrence.

I walked into his room and stood around aimlessly like a coward. It didn't help much. I could still hear his sniffling and despaired sobbing, only it was muffled through the wall. Perhaps I'd thought the muffle might have made the situation more bearable. But it didn't, of course it didn't. All I could do was stand, listen and feel the ripple of self-loathing for causing my friend so much pain.

When I hadn't heard anything for a little while, I peeked my head around the doorframe pathetically. He was no longer on the sofa, but was hovering around the TV, his hand outstretched toward an area which my sight was blocked of.

I stepped back into the living room to gather a better view. His extended arm became clear, tracing over the patterns engraved into my urn, which rested upon one of the surrounding shelves.

After a minute of mindless swirling whilst zoned out, he grabbed the urn and brought it to the coffee table. I was confused as to why he suddenly felt the need to move it, it having not been touched since the move.