Finding the Pure Note

My Strings Are Cut

Mum's chopping onions, at least they look like onions, except her hand's moving so fast, it's practically a blur. I can't see her face, only the back of her head. She's in black, as always, and her hair is prim, nothing like the dishevelled cobweb strands I saw today.

The kitchen is grey, as if the edges are on fire, disintegrating almost, but I don't pay much heed to that. Instead, I walk towards her, hand raised to tap her shoulder. I feel small, and there's this lingering dread inside me, telling—willing me not to take another step. To turn and run, but I ignore it, the idiot I am, and then my fingers are mere inches from her jacket.

She spins, her face a mask of shadows, pointed fangs with eyes of burning silver. The knife is raised, poised and ready to strike. I scream, covering my face, and... nothing.

Opening my eyes, I let my hands fall, and she's no longer there. The room has shifted, and I'm not in the kitchen, but the garage. Dad is kneeling down, almost buried in boxes. I ask him what he's looking for, and he responds curtly that it's none of my business. I bristle, but then he turns and his lines soften. Holding up his hand, I see a pair of scissors.

"What do you need those for?" I ask, clearing my throat.

"To cut my strings."

I want to ask what he means, but then he holds his guitar up, and with instant dismay, I know what he plans to do. I try and scream, but no sound escapes my throat. He buries the scissors in the wood of the guitar and starts to tear through it. I run towards him, but he pushes me back, and I topple over boxes. I know this must be a dream, but the pain is still there, tracing lines up my back. He stands over me, the guitar hoisted above his head, and he brings it down.

Drowning blackness, and then I sit up. I'm in bed, my bed. I feel awake, but resting my hand where I know Fletcher should be, my gut sinks as it falls to empty sheets. It makes no sense; I was heading to his house, but now I was in my room. Is this real...?

Throwing my duvet off me, I move to the curtains and lift them slightly, allowing the early morning sun, cream light spilling in. I pause at the stairs, gripping the wood railing way too firmly, and then I tread cautiously down, following a hallway that feels endless, so it seems strangely bizarre when I'm in the kitchen. Mum isn't there. At least, not at first. I spin around, and she and dad are in each other's arms, leaning against the bench. She giggles, and he spins her in a pirouette. I almost smile, but the sight of it is more than I can handle. I feel like shouting for Hunter, but then mum falls, dad refusing to catch her. They start yelling, and then he looks straight at me.

"What do you want?!"

I say nothing.

"Huh? This is none of your business! Get the hell out!"

I stay still, fingers trembling, mouth dry.

Dad approaches me, fist raised, his hulking figure ready to swallow me whole, but then mum throws herself in the way.

"Please no!" she begs. "It's not his fault!"

"How can you say that?!" he roars, bringing his fist before her face. She flinches, but then faces him again, taking hold of his next blow. They are locked in this struggle, and I can only stare in dumb awe as his teeth grit together, face violet, losing to mum's sheer strength. As if turning years of lonely motherhood against his tyranny, and I can't help but feel this is a scene that belongs to another family, another battle. This isn't dad. Dad was always gentle, always calm.

"He put me in here!" dad shrieks through grinding teeth. I can't understand what he means. He can't possibly be suggesting that... No, but what's happening with dad was out of our control. Anyone's control.