Angel (Fuenciado)

Chapter 9: Strings

When I finally wake up on Tuesday a week later, it's eleven o'clock - God, that's a lie in and a half. I don't remember sleeping that long in ages...mind you, it wasn't a peaceful sleep. It was fraught. There are too many things on my mind.

As I walk into the lounge, I see Mike still in his wheelchair and pyjamas on his laptop.

"What are you up to?"

"Nothing," he says quickly, and closes it. It's obviously a lie, but whatever he was looking at he wants kept private, so I don't pry. All of a sudden, he laughs.

"What's so funny?"

"Sexy pyjamas."

I look down at my Adventure Time pyjamas and grin.

"I know, right? Get the chicks with these. Have you eaten?"

"Yeah. I made you toast but that was about two and a half hours ago, so it's probably cold by now."

"Ah. Right. Okay."

"Also, Jaime called. He offered to take me out today."

"Fine. Where are we going?"

"Um," he looks a little awkward, "just us two. Me and Jaime."

I hesitate, then nod. "Right. Okay then."

"He wanted you to just stay and relax at home  today. Just unwind a bit. You're a little ball of stress these days."

"Fair enough. So where are you going?"

"Dunno. I don't think Jaime does either. I think he's in adventure mode."

I laugh and get myself fresh toast, throwing the cold slices away.

Jaime and Mike leave at noon and then I am alone and worrying again, so I try and think of things that relax me, but nothing springs to mind so instead I busy myself with the washing up. I wonder where Mike is now...I wonder if he's okay.

As I put the second to last pot on the drying rack, a tune pops into my head. It isn't the tune of any particular song - it's just a tune I made up. I stop washing the final pan and tap out the rhythm on the counter. I pause. I lean on the desktop. I dry my hands on the teatowel and then I go upstairs.

I go to the spare room, and sure enough, when I enter, the acoustic guitar is still there. I pick my way through the clutter and pick it up by the neck, disturbing the dust, and then I stare at it for a while, examining the tension of the strings and the contours of the wood, before I dust a little dirt off and carry it downstairs.

I sit on the sofa and tap out that rhythm again, humming the tune that has manifested itself, before gently plucking a few strings.

"Jesus Christ," I wince at the sound. It's so out of tune it's not even true. So I use a tuning app on my phone and tighten up the strings so I can play an A without it sounding like someone just stepped on the tail of a cat. When I can strum a few chords, I tap out the rhythm once more before plucking a few strings.

It sounds good. Actually, it sounds pretty great. I repeat it, and it definitely sounds better repeated. It sounds like it needs some Gs and E major chords, so I factor those in and all of a sudden, I have a verse. Lyrics?. Nah. But the whole theme of the tune is unmistakable; an intro and a verse.

Suddenly lacking in inspiration, I mindlessly plucked a few strings, before playing parts of songs I used to live in.

Choke, try to wash you down with something strong,
Dry but the taste of blood remains.
Cold, empty matresses and falling stars,
My how they start to look the same.