Something to Dream About {Slow Updates}

One

𝄞 Layla 𝄞

I wonder how long it would take to murder someone with a guitar. Not that I would or anything, just curious.

Surely an electric guitar would take someone out quicker, right? I think those things are made of metal.

As for an acoustic guitar, I guess you could sharpen it into a knife to make the kill quicker. But if you were to leave it as a guitar, how long would it take?

If I was being attacked by, say, Ted Bundy, and all I had to protect myself with was an acoustic guitar, would I be able to keep myself alive? I couldn't remember how exactly he killed people or how strong he was. I only remembered a few things about his case.

He was apparently handsome—though, I never really saw it. He would break into victims' homes in the middle of the night to kill them. He would rape women. I couldn't sleep for days when I found out that last part.

I've been a victim to such an action before and it was something that I didn't allow myself to dwell on anymore. And when I did, I tried to joke about what happened to me.

I'd rather look insane by laughing then look pitiful by crying.

Back to my point, if I knew I was being targeted by someone who wanted to put me through that again and all I had was an acoustic guitar, then six strings and some wood are going to save me. I'd do anything to never relive those moments.

Including beating someone to death with a guitar.

Although, I imagine beating someone with something smaller would be a little easier. Maybe a violin. Or a flute? Depending on its material.

What are trumpets made of? Maybe that could be useful if the material was convenient.

I held back a laugh when my brain pulled up images of me beating a faceless person with the instrument. Murder isn't funny, but I think what I found humorous was how outrageous the thought was.

"Ms. DuPont," Mr. Forester, my Civics teacher, said my last name incorrectly, pronouncing the t. It's supposed to be silent. "Are you keeping up with us?"

He didn't say it in a very disciplinary tone. In fact, I was pretty sure he was nicer to me than he was to some of my other classmates when they dazed off, but it was still frustrating. I wished teachers would just let me be, it wasn't like my tendency to get distracted was affecting them. And anyway, I still had passing grades, so it really didn't matter.

My eyes snapped to his and I nodded.

He flashed a grin and said, "Good girl," before turning around.

It was a normal teacher thing, I knew, to give words of praise like that, but it still made me uncomfortable.

For a moment, I tried to remember how my brain went off on its original tangent. The only problem was that I couldn't remember what I was even thinking of in the first place.

Thanks a lot, Mr. Forester. Have you considered being the teacher of...stupid...class...?

Forget that. I sucked at coming up with insults so I gave up and made the probably-wise decision to keep my eyes on the board, attempting to pay attention to Mr. Forester's lesson.

After a long eighty minute class period, in which I did absolutely no focusing, I was finally free of the torture. I threw my backpack over my shoulders and left the class before the bell could even stop ringing.

My best friend Kiara was waiting outside the classroom. She was already smiling—which was her default expression.

In my opinion, this girl was the coolest person in the world. Not because she was loud or did drugs or partied—in fact, she wouldn't be caught dead engaging in that stuff. I admired her because of how wise she was at our age. And how even her emotions were.