Saturday, April 29, 2006

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Tonight had been a damn good evening, better than he would have ever hoped for; he would never have dared believe that they would have been offered a second gig so soon. But he knows they have got to keep working, keep on rehearsing and creating new material.

He is still high on adrenaline, in the grip of insomnia. He may as well work on a new song, for practice means perfect and perfect means contract. Electric Masquerade becomes the darling of the music press. Their faces adorn the covers of glossy magazines, they headline the biggest stadiums, a thousand hearts and lips are offered in reverent sacrifice to the new Gods of the stage.

Just a dream that will sustain him through the long night.

He picks up the acoustic guitar, picking at the strings and turning the keys until he is satisfied that it is in perfect tune. His hand starts to move across strings now held in the bondage of chords. The guitar vibrates in harmonious melody, waves of sound pour into the night.

You walked into the room,
You were a thousand miles away;
And I guess I should of known
That our love had died this day.

His voice is deep, melancholy, and vibrates with emotion. His eyes hold a tear of recognition as the words and music combine to produce a poignant story of love that was lost. Twisted and stolen.

The cold edge of daggers
That filled your icy stare,
Flying in a murderous arc
Along your marble glare.

His head nods slowly in rhythmic agreement, as he remembers romantic pain. It seems like years ago, perhaps it was. Lost within a haze of love turned lust turned hate.

And I knew,
She had murder in her eyes.
It took me by surprise,
But I knew our love had died.
Murder in her eyes.

He puts down the guitar and rubs his eyes; tired and sore with the pungent incense that he burns in the room. Murder. In his mind he can see scarlet, like the colour of the heart, in a candy romance. Why, he thinks, do I only see in scarlet, colouring my imagination, stained within my dreams? Why does the flood of blood always haunt my every fantasy?

He bows his head for a moment and then, thoughtfully, opens the guitar case and gently lays the instrument within.

© 1990 & 2006 Andrew M Boylan