He looked into the mirror; he was never satisfied with what he saw. It was never anything close to desirable, no matter what he did. He could never learn to appreciate and love himself. The music didnít help either, he knew it was significant somehow, but he couldnít quite pinpoint it , he hadnít diagnosed what it was , he hated mysterious undefined occurrences , even more so when it was happening in his own mind . Why could nobody else hear it? Why didnít anyone know? The music was ever present, sometimes faint, and sometimes as clear as freshly polished crystal, despite the volume it played on through his mind as though he was a forgotten stereo on repeat. As hard as he tried to block it out he was unsuccessful, the music played host to his mind like pathogenic bacteria. His bright blue eyes searched into the mirror longingly, desperately for some answer, for some visible sign of the musical presence. He was aware of its presence throughout him; it just frustrated him that he couldnít physically see it. ďItís like air,Ē was one of the many explanations he had conjured, ďWe canít see it, but we have to believe it, because thatís whatís keeping us aliveĒ. He often wondered if the music was the source of his existence. Long hours he spent, alone lying on his bed, staring endlessly into the darkness that surrounded him.
During the day however, he was a completely different individual , surrounding himself with people and talking about mindless crazes , how successful his team was in the football or pretending to be interested in that blonde that works behind the counter in the shop across the street. He wished. In fact thatís all he was, an individual. He often fantasized about taking the position of his rival, surrounded by good friends and even a fan base to a certain extent, not to mention a mind free of pointless music. To everyone else he seemed normal , everyone else didnít know he heard music , they couldnít hear it , they didnít have to constantly question why or how , because they didnít have to know. The one thing they seemed to know was his weakness, not everyone, just who he wished he could be. One thing was for sure. They could pack a punch and it hurt, but he never cried, he was far too ashamed to. Pinned down with his eyes rolling into the back of his head, he tasted blood; it trickled from his left nostril to his upper lip, dry and cracked from the heat. Pain it seemed was commonplace for him, it seemed like everyone else was a sadist, and unfortunately for him he didnít indulge in masochism so the relationship didnít quite work. Often he was left in a heap on a floor, like today and he could hear their laughter and footsteps as they ran away. ďThose bastardsĒ he muttered, breathlessly, they didnít know the extent of what theyíd done the external pain was nothing compared to the throbbing in his head. The music began to pound. It thrived at times like this; he rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up from the moist grass, until his feet touched the ground. The knee of his cargo pants were torn and his converse shoe had a drop of blood on the once white toe, he bent down and brushed it off with his thumb , his light blonde hair was sticking to his pale face with sweat , he tucked it behind his ears and began to run home ordinarily he would have ridden , but his bicycle had been claimed by the same people who regularly beat him, also it was easier to avoid the paparazzi this way ,even though it hurt, he needed to be in his room , when the music was loud like this ,public was not a good place to be in, it was safer for him to be in his room in his own place , his mind was able to wander freely and where he had access to what he held precious, simply and pen and paper. He entered his room and came face to face with his enemy, the only thing separating them was the glass, and he looked down at his blue striped shirt and pulled it over his head. He didnít like removing his clothes , he hated what was underneath them , they hid from the world the fact that he was borderline anorexic , he hadnít eaten in days , although there was a cupboard full of food it was self deprivation. His ribs were clearly defined; the skin covering them seemed superfluous. He didnít have much body hair , which he was also self conscious about because being the quiet observer that he is , noticed the all other guys around his age obtained thicker , darker body hair , they all looked older than him. Most of all he hated his lily white skin, he often refused to swim and without fail always wore clothes that covered his legs even in 40 degree heat. The music was pulsing through his mind; nothing could distract him from it. ďIs this music eating me aliveÖ? Is this why I donít eat?Ē Anger consumed him at the thought. Once again laying on his unmade bed with his hands behind his head these thoughts crossed his mind. He stared blankly at the fan, whirring around with so much speed that one could form pictures from the shadows. One thing was for sure; his mind was never devoid of thoughts. Mostly negative they were, but they did not contribute as to why only he could here the music. It haunted him and he felt it was a burden, that nothing he could do physically would rid him of this. He sat up, flicked his head forward and back so his hair fell neatly, when he regained focus he stared into his palms, just stared. He clenched his fists frustrated at his confusion. He tried to define the music, it sounded vaguely like a rolling thunder but he had never experienced much weather like that before and couldnít think of anyone significant to him who had. Although, he thought "maybe, itís a sign that I should leave ,just get up and leave , Its not like im ever going to be accepted anyway" he reasoned. His hands were small with thin fingers and bitten nails. They didnít look as though they were made for hard work, despite the bruising on his knuckles in an unsuccessful attempt to defend himself. He knew he was in for a sleepless night and this was not the first time. His eyes grew tired and sore, but some one or something was denying him sleep. Eyeliner was smudged down to his upper cheeks, through deprivation of cleansing, this was intentional , he didnít want the extent of his femininity to go too far , despite the malicious rumors present at his school , he was not in fact, homosexual ,which exacerbated the problem of the discrimination he received at school , not that he was against the idea of homosexuality, he didnít just pretend to like the blonde girl over the road , he admired her , cherishing the thought of her , naturally she had a boyfriend of course and was superior to him in every way. The tune was circling his head like vultures circle their prey. He felt as though he was being tortured, it was worse than being physically punched. In fact he wouldíve preferred it. Because at least he knew that would eventually end unlike the music which had never failed him. He attempted to sleep, almost immediately after he closed his eyes a vivid picture of his hands flashed before him, Thunder struck outside his window and he heard rain , for the first time since he was a small child. He became startled, he rose with eyebrows raised and his pupils shrunk, emphasizing the sky blue of his eyes. He was hesitant to move, his eyes flickered from side to side suspiciously, and he tilted his head, with one eyebrow raised. He spun around and almost simultaneously lightning patterned the sky. The rumbling of the music resurfaced inside of him, his fragile fingers began to vibrate uncontrollably. He began to run but before reaching his door, the reflection of himself in the mirror glared back at him, the dark shadows eerily threw a word upon the glass ; ďPLAYĒ. The short blonde hairs prickled on the back of his sweating neck, his unbrushed long hair falling past his shoulders. For fear, he did not utter a sound. He knew what his mission was. Stealthily he crept towards his ancestors unopened cupboard old and wooden , carved with intricate patterns featuring jesters and crows, a family relic stored in his room directly under the mirror ,which was eye height, hands still shaking he bent down ever so slightly and fumbled for the iron key strategically placed in the antique lock located at chin height. The music amplified greatly, more so then it had ever done before, it became likened to a heart beat he thought his ear drums were going to burst , he felt nauseous but he had to open this cupboard, without further ado he pushed the key in forcefully and the door flung open hitting him on the chest and swung to the back of his wall , cracking the plaster. For once in his life everything became silent, everything. He felt worthy of the title ďnormal human beingĒ for the first time in his life. The contents of the cupboard consisted of 1 large electric guitar, the strings vibrated as much as his fingers, the connection was magnetic. The lightning struck a third time, highlighting the beauty of the musical instrument he presented before him, he knew they belonged together; he had an antidote for the poison that plagued his mind. He did not hear anything, but the thunder rolling outside. His thirst for answers was quenched, the surface of the guitar was reflective, and he saw himself and was satisfied with what he saw and for him that was a whole new experience. It didnít matter what events followed, he had found a purpose for his life and thatís all he wanted.
you'll see....it'll hook you in
very powerfull. it grabs you and you can feel it... very real.... it has a life of its own.... i.... yeah its awsome..... very moving
wow very powerful it might have been better if there were seperate paragraphs - its a bit daunting to look at it all in one block and read it. Nice work m, I think this is a great piece.
hmmm thats a thought , maybe i will resubmit with paragraphs...but im glad u liked the story *hopes the ending wasnt to aprubt , but i was working to a limited word count.
Amazing story, though in some places the sentences were a little long. I liked it though, and I think you did a very good job- especially with descriptions.