His eyes stung but no tears fell as he realized that no matter where he was, he couldnt hide from himself. Like a man on a mission, he walked over to the stereo, grabbed the receiver, and yanked with both hands. It took several strong tugs before the digital lights went off. With the receiver in hand, he stumbled backward, ripping wires and knocking over one of the large Bose speakers. Distraught and panting, he mad his way to the giant sliding safety glass door that led to the balcony. He casually dropped the high-tech receiver and undid the latch that kept the heavy door locked. Fresh air attacked his senses. The cool breeze felt invigorating as he stepped out onto the balcony and looked over the edge. His jet-black Bentley sat gleaming in the parking lot directly below. He picked the receiver up, held it over the balcony, and aimed it at the car. After several seconds of wondering if his aim was accurate, he let go. Glass spidered wildly when the receiver hit the cars windshield and broke through. He went to fetch the beer hed been distracted from and ripped the refrigerator door open as hard as he could. It crashed open, spilling several items onto the floor. The door dangled by a hinge. Mayne grabbed a beer, chugged half, and like a strong-armed baseball pitcher threw it at his guitar collection, barely missing his favorite: a vintage 57 Sunburst Les Paul. He grabbed another can from the crippled refrigerator as his eyes returned to the guitars.
The guitars were like adopted children and he loved each one in a different manner.
Certain guitars held certain memories but each guitar had the ability to create magic. It was that potential he respected and admired most about these guitars until this afternoon. Now, no matter how much he loved a certain guitar, or how valuable it might be, all he wanted to do was feel pain. Pain brought him closer to reality. It brought him closer to Elizabeth. He gave the world music, very good music, and asked for little in return. A little space to create, some kicks thrown in, and how about peace of mind? Instead, he had more material goods than he could ever use, more money than he could count, and nothing worth fighting for. There was a time not too long ago when hed fought like hell for all of this. Now that he owned a piece of the rock he wished he could give it back. The view from the top wasnt as picturesque as hed imagined. What he did as his artistic expression, the record company sold for capital. Hed quickly grown disillusioned with the system but what else could he do? Without the industry he couldnt share his music. No matter how hard anyone tried explaining it to him, musical notes would never equal dollar signs. He made music because since his early childhood, he truly loved rock n roll. It was the people, his people, he wrote music for after he finished writing for himself. So then, why couldnt he sleep at night?
He stared at the answer.
He was going to kill his guitars. If it wasnt for these guitars, he wouldnt have the problems he did. And hes save the goddamn 57 Sunburst for last. He guzzled the beer, raising it away from his greedy mouth. Budweiser rained down the side of his face. When the can was almost empty, he crushed and spiked it like a football. Enraged, he grabbed a Les Paul Black Beauty and dealt it a quick but savage death against a wall. He raised a rare Telecaster over his head and clubbed the coffee table, breaking both. Then he picked up another Les Paul and, swinging it like a baseball bat, clobbered a lamp and several other objects before the guitars neck snapped off.
@!#$ cheap @!#$, he grumbled.
He heard something that had a bit of rhythm to it. Was there a drummer playing in his head? It took several seconds for him to realize that one of the neighbors was pounding on the wall.
WHAT, A LITTLE TOO LOUD FOR YA? Mayne shouted at the direction the noise was coming from. It didnt stop.
YER PISSING ME OFF, @!#$!
Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock.
"@!#$, I'm giving ya fair fucking warning," he said.
Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock.
Mayne walked into the bedroom and over to the night table. He grabbed his cocaine and poured a decent-sized mound on the back of his hand that wasnt bleeding and snorted. Afterward he licked residue off his fist, numbing his teeth and gums. There was a pack of Marlboros on the table. He grabbed one and lit it. He took a deep drag and listened to his surroundings. The neighbor was still pounding. The ashtray was an overflowing mountain of dead butts so Mayne placed the cigarette on the edge of the night table. He had tried to avoid a confrontation, but the shithead next door wouldnt let it lie. He went to his wall safe, grabbed the Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum, and charged out of the bedroom. OKAY, HOMEFUCK, WANNA PLAY GAMES?
Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock.
KABAMMM, KABAMMM, KABAMMM.
He unloaded three shots toward the already hole-ridden wall. The pounding stopped instantly. Again he smiled. He aimed the pistol at one of his platinum discs on another wall and blasted the shiny sphere. He aimed at his TV and blew it to kingdom come. One bullet left. He held the silver-plated pistol in awe. He could easily join Elizabeth; all it would take was one quick squeeze of the trigger. The idea appealed to him. Maybe hed get it right in his next life. Slowly, eyes closed, he raised the pistol. The trigger teased his scarlet index finger. The barrel felt good against his temple. Readying himself, he reopened his eyes. In front of him, mocking him, were two more Les Paul guitars. There once was a point in his life when these musical embodiments were holy. The dedication and years of practicing were a labor of love. Guitars were his passion, his expression, and his ticket out of obscurity. But all of that changed with one song. Now these guitars were reminders that Mayne could never regain his innocence.
Cant I @!#$ die with some dignity? he wondered as rage consumed him.
He couldnt even commit suicide without music somehow interfering. His shaking arm lowered and took aim at one of the guitars. There was heavy recoil as wooden fragments flew everywhere. He put a massive hole in the guitar, and then walked over to examine his accuracy. It was definitely dead, but that wasnt enough. He picked up the remains and threw them against the safety-glass door. He walked over to the balconys edge. Below, a small crowd had gathered around his ruined luxury car.
Anybody want an autograph? he asked, tossing out the fragmented guitar.
Wait a minute, wait a minute. I got another present! he yelled, and ran into the bedroom.
His heavy footsteps jarred the cigarette hed forgotten off the night table. It smoldered on the thick rug. Mayne dug inside the wall safe, grabbed a handful of hundred-dollar bills, and ran back to the balcony before his audience could
scurry away.
Dont say I never gave you anything, he announced, letting the money fly.
Several wary spectators stepped backward but as soon as it was obvious that the confetti was currency, they rushed forward. Mayne waved to the small crowd and went back inside.
One guitar remained.
He stared at the 57, marveling at the beautiful colors. It was appropriately called a Sunburst. Reds, oranges, and yellows swirled in the wooden body. This one had gold trim as well as golden pickups. The Sunburst was his preference of all guitars. He had another two dozen in storage but this guitar was the first thing he bought after Suicide Shift was signed to a recording contract. It was how hed rewarded himself for having made it. This was also the guitar hed written the music to Without You on. He approached it with
caution and respect and gently picked it up. He sat down on the floor Indian style. Deep down, he was glad he hadnt destroyed this ax. His picking hand hurt badly, but he wanted to play. Blood dripped off his hand and dripped down the guitars body. Enthralled, Mayne watched it run. No matter how intoxicated he was, his fingers never betrayed him, and this particular guitar always responded to his call. He began picking something that sounded like Hendrix. He paused abruptly. Something about that last guitar run shook him up and he couldnt continue. In a vague way, it reminded him of a part in Without You. After taking a deep breath, Mayne partially regained his composure. Multimillionaires like Mayne Mann arent supposed to cry. Theyre beyond tears or at least thats what society wants to believe. Mayne Mann was just Stephen Maynard Mandraich, a talented kid who could run his nimble fingers along a piece of stringed wood. He began to strum one of his favorite riffs, Thin Lizzys Dont Believe a Word. Even though the guitar wasnt amplified, he could hear it as if it was. He let the last note ring out as he stopped and reflected. He used to love the feel of this instrument in his hands. He used to love making the strings come to life. He used to love just holding this guitar. Then his mind viciously reminded him that hed also loved the way
Elizabeth felt. He quickly rose off the floor and tossed the guitar aside. It landed with a loud DWWWAANNNGGGG.
He stared blankly at the guitar and thought of her. Both had given him so much pleasure, but hed never been able to properly express his gratitude. He never told her the truth about how she made him feel, about how much he loved her, and when he did, the song reaffirmed that he shouldve kept his mouth shut. At least shed still be alive. But the song was pure and he wanted to play it for her. Even if her physical body wasnt present, he could still sing to her in heaven. He wanted to jam but was afraid to touch the guitar.
Then Mayne saw an alternative. He scooped up the almost-dead whiskey bottle and finished what little was left. It slipped silently from his hand. Very drunk, very drugged out, he staggered over to the piano. The smoldering cigarette on the bedroom rug had burned its way over to the goose-down comforter. The cover caught and flames quickly spread throughout the bedroom. Discarded clothing acted as kindling and soon the bedroom was on fire.
Until several hazy hours ago, Maynes life, no matter how miserable, had been something most people could only dream about. It was all an illusion, and he was one of rock n rolls elite, a hero. Now, hed been reduced to his basic self and nothing really mattered. He felt the thorns wrapped around his heart and for the first time in far too long, felt human again. Hed smothered his spirituality in drug abuse. Hed stunted his health and personal growth with
vice. Hed blinded himself because he was afraid to see that his purpose, his gift in life, was to be true to himself. And the only time he was able to find that inner truth was when he played his music. He softly tapped the ivory keys, making melodies come to life through his fingers. No matter how badly his hand hurt, he persisted in making music. He was determined to play for Elizabeth and all the other angels. With every fluid run, every harmony, every musical accent, his inner pain subsided a little. With each passing musical note, he became one with the music.
Sweating profusely, Mayne felt something stirring behind him. He tried ignoring it for as long as possible. Finally, he turned and saw large flames billowing out of his bedroom. At first he thought it was a hallucination but the fire was scorchingly real and heading his way. His favorite guitar was already engulfed and dying. He wanted to save it but couldnt. He refused to let his jamming be interrupted. Elizabeth was listening. Every time his fingers pressed the Steinways keys, crimson stained the ivory and smeared. He ignored the small red spots, sliding his long fingers through them. Scarred-up veins bulged from his forearms a sweat ran down his face. All hed ever wanted to do with his life
was play his music and now he was. For the moment, he felt free from his demons. He built up the courage and began singing Without You in his natural gruff voice. The thick carpeting quickly became a wall-to-wall inferno as a giant wave of fire rose up and spread around the piano. He couldnt have cared less. As flames swallowed the apartment, Mayne never screamed and never missed a note.
The End
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