The Hammer And The String

Chapter 9

Sleep wasn't refuge tonight, it was a battlefield. The Phantom Jockeys were back, their music twisting into mocking fanfares, their faces morphing into venomous sneers. We relived the glory days, the camaraderie of gigs and championships, the feeling of belonging etched in every strum of my guitar. But then, the ash of betrayal replaced the joy, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

Then i was standing in an empty room, i recognised this is the backstage for the school event, my last gig with the Phatom Jockeys, every step i took sounded like a drop of water, like a firm harmonics on a guitar, then i opened the door,

I saw a young boy, he stood at an average height, his shoulders broad and squared, giving him a solid and grounded presence. Tousled chestnut hair fell casually across his forehead, adding a touch of disheveled charm to his appearance. His eyes, a deep hazel, held a captivating blend of introspection and a perpetual spark of ambition, mirroring the passionate pursuit of his musical dreams.

I inches closer, i recognised him,

he was me.

It was a younger version of me, he stood there, a few inches shorter, with a fairly longer hair.

"What makes you think you deserve to play with her?" His voice echoes through the backstage

"Her fingers have waltzed on ivory of the piano since childhood."

Then, he sneered, "while yours chased stardom, not art. how pathetic was that? she was passionate she believes in her music, in her melodies, in her songs. and you? you just chase the crowds. you just want to belong somewhere, you're just ruining her musical journey, a parasite in her persuit of music."

Then, the faces morphed, the music warped into spectral moans. the once a form of my own face and my own body, now morphed into Mr. Iverson, his kindly expression curdled into a mask of disgust, his voice sandpaper scraping across my soul: "Disappointed, Daniel. Utterly and irredeemably disappointed." The air turned frigid, his words icicles piercing my heart.

Next, it morphed into Murphy. Her emerald eyes, usually vibrant and warm, were now drowned in oceans of unshed tears. Her voice, a choked sob: "How could you, Daniel? I trusted you. I believed you could be better!" Each syllable a whiplash, ripping open the wounds I'd spent months trying to stitch closed.

Tom, my once-brother-in-arms, materialized from the form of Murphy, his eyes twin pits of despair. "We were supposed to fly, Daniel," he rasped, the echo of a broken promise. "Why'd you clip your own wings and drag us all down with you? I thought we will fight together in the competition like we always dreamt of, Daniel." The accusation hung heavy, a suffocating shroud of guilt.

The pressure mounted, suffocating. then the form of Tom morphed to the form of me again, sneered, his disheveled chestnut hair fell on his forehead

"What makes you think this duet, this flimsy competition, will erase your failures?" the reflection hissed, demanding an answer.

From the swirling dread, memories rose like fireflies, each twinkling with warmth and light. I saw myself, young and bright-eyed, joining The Phantom Jockeys, the echo of that first shared chord a joyous rumble in my chest.

Then, the first time I heard Murphy's piano, her notes weaving around mine like spun moonlight, sending shivers down my spine in the best way possible.

I saw her fingers dance across the keys, sunlight in their wake, and the way our laughter would erupt after a tense practice, washing away any discord like a summer rain.

Mr. Iverson's gruff critiques weren't daggers, but sandpaper smoothed to a polish. I remembered how we'd grown under his gruff tutelage, me clowning as a chicken and Murphy's tears of laughter drying in the warmth of his pride.