Story -

I Owed My Life To The Strings Of My Guitar

His fingers bleed as he shreds. The old guitar still has life, his talent still has wings, and his smile beams when the sound hits. But James Burley is sitting in a tattered motel room, festering away like an old apple, falling deeply into his old ways, drinking a cheap bottle of table wine. Heā€™s fading fast, coughing up blood on a handkerchief giving to him by his war hero grandfather.
The room is flea ridden, the sheets are incrusted in body hair and dead skin, the mattress is brown, the smell of staleness carries through, a mustiness so potent it clogs the nostrils. Thereā€™s even mould on the ceiling and on the trashy curtains, and James sits in it, smoking dope, stuck in a rut.
The music is the one thing he clings onto, but thereā€™s no drive, no foundation, no solid, concrete solution. Heā€™s scarred by life, a man whose went through the wars, broken hearted by loves sinister intentions.
And heā€™s kept the picture. A photograph of her, a woman who branded him a failure at the beginning of their downward, downtrodden relationship. He thinks about her at times when he feels his world is closing in, when the emptiness pounds.
He puts the picture back into the top pocket of his red shirt, patting it like a dog. He rises from the bed and glances at himself in the mirror, shocked at his reflection. The face is old, blotched, and bearded, and James canā€™t be bothered cropping it or cleaning himself up.
He has a show tonight at a small venue called Maggieā€™s. A place where the sinners go and drink to their pain. But, with Jamesā€™s trusted guitar, he might be the saving grace, a contrast to the dinginess and depressive atmosphere. He certainly has the skills, but will his mind adjust? Or will he falter at the opening song.
He puts the guitar in its case and heads out of the rotting motel room, leaving the stench behind.
Maggieā€™s is lit up like a stripper joint, and James has second thoughts about entering the establishment, but money is money and beer is beer.
He enters and is nearly struck down by the smoke and nearly blinded by the lights. He proceeds to the bar and speaks to the rebellious barman.
ā€˜Iā€™m here for a gigā€™
ā€˜What?ā€™
The man behind the bar canā€™t hear James because of the loud, repetitive music.
ā€˜Iā€™m here to play, my name is James Burleyā€™
ā€˜Oh, yeah, we were expecting you, youā€™re on in half an hourā€™
James wanders backstage and sees a couple having sex on the floor. He goes passed them like a speed of light and enters the dressing room.
There sits another flame haired rebel like creature wearing makeup, snorting enough coke to fill a swimming pool.
ā€˜Hey stranger, would you like some?ā€™
James tries to refrain but the temptation is overruling his sensible ways.
ā€˜Yeah, why notā€™
James fills his nose with a substantial amount of the drug. He begins to feel warm and arrested by hysteria, his eyes bulge, his body feels weightless and the freedom feels blissful.
ā€˜So, what brings you to Maggieā€™s?ā€™
ā€˜Iā€™m playing a showā€™
ā€˜Aright, great, and what stuff do you playā€™
ā€˜My own songsā€™
ā€˜Even better, you should teach me how to play sometime?ā€™
James is uncomfortable and restless. He looks at the thing before him, all tattooed and barely dressed.
ā€˜I better set up, thanks for the cokeā€™
They exchange a handshake and James removes himself from the awkward situation.
The glitzy lights remind James of the past, his younger days spent escaping the monotony. The crowd in front of him are young and rowdy, awaiting an acoustic performance that may not arouse interest. But heā€™ll try his utmost.
He strikes the guitar with energy and sings his songs with might and intent, trying to trap the moment.
The audience arenā€™t wowed by what theyā€™re hearing. They throw bottles at James, hitting him from every angle. Every hit is puncturing his dreams.
He departs the stage and leaves his guitar amid the chaos and mayhem.
At the motel, James slams the door behind him. Angered by the response, swigging more of the cheap wine, and riffling through the drawer.
He picks up an old revolver his grandfather left him and places it near his head.
The man with a gift no one appreciates, the man hurt by broken dreams.
BLOWS his brains out into the ashtray.
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