Until Her...

Chapter Twenty-Six

Avery's gone home for the weekend so she could get some space to clear her head. She'd avoided Gabriel a first, but I think she realised that he was always going to be around as there in the same friendship group. But I honestly think she missed having her friend around, and they've known each other for so long it would be a shame to throw that away. I've seen Gabriel once, and that was in class. I sat back in my little corner and he picked an area as far away from mine as possible. I'm grateful that he left me alone... but deep idiotic part of me wishes he wouldn't. I miss having him around, even if he's making brash comments. He's found a way into my life and I wish I got to see the person everyone else gets to see. Why is he so different around me? And why I'm so different around him? All I know is that I need to find a way to stop thinking about him. My days, thoughts, and even my dreams have been filled with him. But that needs to stop, I need to stop.

My eyes catch the sight of my guitar and piano. I'd almost forgotten they were even there, gathering dust in the corner of my room. I've avoided playing for months now. The last time I properly played was back when in England, I played for about ten minutes when I first got my new piano, but then I just stopped and didn't go back. I've been really busy with my internship, classes, studio, my friends and arguing with Gabriel. That's what I've been telling myself, lying to myself about the real reason I've been avoiding it. Music has always been a liberation from my life. I use it whenever I needed to escape the pain or anger that was taking over my life. And I've had a lot of lately, with all the lies and games. But the real reason I play is something entirely different, I use it as a way to feel closer to Dylan, my brother. He loves music more than anyone I've ever met in my life. He would always blast it through the house at the highest volume it could possibly go. Day or night, his room would radiate with the different music styles he liked. Mum would constantly yell at him to turn it down, moaning about how loud it is.
But Dylan would just say, "The music needs to be heard, mum"
"We can hear the music just fine Dylan, houses down the street can hear it. Now turn it down" she'd scream back over the music.
"No, you need to hear it" he said his eyes closed and carelessly jumping around the living room to the beat.  
"Dylan I will not tell you again, turn it down," Mum says, but Dylan just grabs her and makes him dance along with him. She was always so soft with him, letting him get away with everything. The joys of being the only son in a sea of daughters I guess. But she doesn't know him like I do, or understand what he meant whenever he described music. But I knew, I always knew exactly what he meant. We'd spend hours discussing it, I was his student and he'd teach me all about the classic artists before our time. He'd tell me all about how artists paved the way for our new generation of music, that they don't make music like they did in the '60s-'90s era. Dylan didn't play a single song from the current charts, or even music from last ten years. I like current music, but he's right, there is something out the old tunes that makes it greater than what's made now.
He'd take me into London so visit this record store he found one day, and buy me whatever album I wanted. And every Christmas and birthday I would beg my mum and dad for my own guitar. Year after year, I'd beg and beg, and always be disappointed. They only let Dylan play because it kept him from getting into trouble with some of the local kids. Problem with small towns is you only have two choices you either get into fighting and drugs or you try and get out there as quick as possible. My parents knew how easily influenced Dylan could be, so they never said no, as long what he was doing didn't put him in a precarious position. When my auntie gave him a record player at 7 he was hooked and knew exactly what he was going to do with his life. That's how I got into art too, my auntie bought me my first set of paint and brushes. I would draw Dylan little album covers for his music, and then I just got really into it. My parents have never been supportive of my painting, and they never wanted me to play music. They've alway's been so hard on me, saying my interest in art and music weren't a worthy career choice, and that I'll never be successful doing it. I know they want what's best for me, but isn't happiness the most important thing.
"Why not? How come Dylan can and not me" I screamed at them one Christmas, when I received a mini science kit instead of the guitar I was desperate for.
"Because he's different" my dad moaned at me.
"That's not fair" I screamed, throwing the gift across the room and storming up to my bedroom. I stayed in there and didn't speak to either of them for a week. I was a typical moody and ungrateful nine-year-old. Until one day I came back from school to an old beat up guitar on my bed with a huge red bow. I thought my parents had finally caved and gotten me one. But they had no idea what I was talking about. Instead, they were furious, thinking I'd stolen it from somewhere. I asked Dylan if he knew who got it me, but he acted all ignorant. It wasn't until I saw the empty jar that usually kept his money from chores and savings, that I realised where it came from. He'd been saving for months, just so he could buy me my own guitar. We never talked about it, but he knew that I knew. I figured if he wanted me to know he would have told me, but my god I loved him so much for it. Dylan is the most incredible person in the entire whole world. The one who taught me to play guitar, to tie my shoelaces, to throw a mean punch — in case I ever needed too. He's the only person who understands and excepts me.

Understood. He understood me.

He died. A while ago now, and I thought I'd never play or listen to music ever again. I became so angry and bitter after he died. Blamed the world for every bad thing that happened to me, I blamed my music. I was so furious that I smashed the guitar, the one he'd bought me, the one he fought for. It was the most important gift I'd ever received in my life and it has more significance to my life than any other gift ever had, and ever will. I learned to play on that guitar, I wrote my first ever song on it. It was the only thing I had from Dylan and I was heartbroken after I'd destroyed it. It felt like losing him all over again. That my heart was cracking along with the wood, splintering into my empty world. I took the bus into London without telling anyone, and I carried all the shattered bits inside my guitar case, hoping somewhere could fix it. But I did a too good a number on it, and it was unfixable. The head of the guitar was the only bit left, so I kept it, and it's gone everywhere with me. It's one of the few sentimental things I brought to New York. That and my brothers own guitar, and when I look at it I remember. Remember how I couldn't listen to music for over a year afterward. That I'd literally run screaming from buildings if the music was playing. Or I'd scream at my sisters for playing it inside the house, smashing there CD's and speakers. Nobody understood. They'd never understand it... And how could they? It was our thing, mine and Dylan's. And without him, it just didn't feel right anymore. So I shut myself off after that. From the world, my family and even myself. I swore I would never feel the kind of pain I felt that night, so I built a wall to guard myself against the outside world. So it became just me. I went numb, living life like a dull ache.

A couple of years after my brother died my Mum and Dad decided that it was time to pack away his stuff. It was too hard for my mum, to constantly seeing his bedroom and all of his things. Looking at everything that reminded her of her son, memories flooding to her, and it all became too much. I came home one day and found them shoving it all into the back of our car, they planned on donating or selling it all. All of his records, posters, instruments, everything was being taken away from me. He was being taken from me all over again, and I completely lost it. They didn't even tell me they were doing it, or even ask me if I wanted any of his things. My temper had been getting worse and worse after he died, but that day I snapped. Having a full on meltdown in the front garden, taking all of his things back inside. I took everything, even some of his old dirty clothes that should have just been thrown away. But I couldn't bear the idea of someone else touching his belongings... to play his guitar. I'd stare at it for hours every single day, wishing I could hear the sound of it again. Wishing I could play it, but I never could. Every time I tried I would see his face so vividly, and break just a little more inside. Until one day, one day I didn't. The image of my dead brother was replaced by the caring and happy Dylan that I'd almost forgotten. I knew he'd be so disappointed in me for giving up music, shut myself off from everyone and everything, but mostly for giving up on myself. And it took me a long time to get there, to get back to playing. But it hasn't been the same, it's not like it was before. All the confidence I'd had in music was gone, it left when he did. Something broke in me the night my brother died, changing me forever. That the happy, kind and funny child I once was had gone and was replaced by a bitter, lonely and sad shadow of a woman. Walking through a life that no longer felt like my own. I didn't recognize myself or who I'd become. Just this broken person, who's trying to survive, taking it one day at a time. I pick up Dylan's guitar for the first time since leaving England and I start to play. I play and write until the night fades away, hour by hour. Until the morning comes back around.