Finding the Pure Note

He Breathed Life and Memory

Ten Years Ago

I was just playing with the guitar, fingers gliding along strings, creating notes that were probably utter rubbish, but to me, they were still important. I was getting an appreciation of music, the way notes and chords sounded. How the simplest of finger movements could lend way to beautiful melodies. Mum said that she couldn't afford a guitar instructor, but I knew she just didn't want me becoming like dad. Dad stressed that I didn't need one and that he was the only teacher I would ever need. He showed me a few simple chords at first, memories of his younger days, but it seemed mum kept that life away from him. I couldn't work out why. It was pure creation, simple and divine.

I didn't register that the window was open, because when I turned to glance out of my dad's study, I let out a yelp of terror. In the window, a young boy had his face pressed against the window, eyes like a maniac. Once the initial shock had died down, I huffed and moved to the window, placing the guitar down gently on its base.

"Nice one, giving me a heart attack like that!" I cry, scrunching my nose up at Fletcher as he smiles too widely and then disappears. A moment later the door shakes with his eager knocks, and I pout, transferring the guitar slowly into its case before hurrying over to let him in.

"You didn't need to knock," I note as he passes by me and heads straight into the kitchen, where his real best friend, the fridge lies. What are best friends if they don't treat your house like it's theirs, too? "Now you've just riled up Max."

Speak of the devil, Max comes pounding into the hallway, barking excitedly at Fletcher.

Fletcher stops to pat her, but his stomach is a mightier beast, and he opens the fridge, ignoring Max as she circles his feet, sniffing at his legs. He scrounges around and then mutters something under his breath. His head spasms and I flinch, biting my lip. That happened every now and then, but Fletcher said it was nothing, just a sore neck or itch he couldn't scratch. I still worry.

"Where's your Pepsi?" he moans, casting his head back in as though a second look might make the Pepsi magically appear.

"Out of it. Just coke."

"I know. That's the problem."

Fletcher looks for a minute more before finally giving up and closing the door, Pepsi-less.

"You need to fix your fridge," he sniffs.

"You need to fix yourself," I respond snidely. "Coke is, like, awesome."

"How can you stand it? It's all..." He sticks his tongue out and moves away, onto his next pursuit. He quickly finds himself by the fruit bowl. Ripping a banana free, he peels it and pulls a chunk off the top, swallowing it one gulp. 

"At least you've got some brains," he says sternly, as though approving of our house's one upside in his mind.

The banana is devoured in less than a minute, more twenty seconds really. I have to slap his hand away before he grabs another. It's a given that bananas are a forbidden item in his house. He goes through so many, and so now there's a strict limit. One batch a month. Two if he plays his cards right.

"Wanna play outside?" I ask, changing the subject. I didn't like Fletcher when he's like this, a predator scrounging through my kitchen like a stray dog through rubbish bins. He can blame his sisters and their healthy appetites all he wants; it's just an excuse for him to drain our house dry.

"Sure."

We make for the front door, Fletcher stopping abruptly when he passes the study. Darting back into it, he runs over to the guitar and grunts as he hoists it up, clutching it clumsily, strumming the strings wildly. I feel my throat seize and I sprint over, pushing him aside as I rip the guitar from his grip.