The Bruised Guitar

The applause from the audience put a beaming smile on my face. I was in a modern, sophisticated local bar, playing music as my way of living. The acoustic guitar that was sitting on my lap was everything a person looks for in a best friend – it never left me when I needed it the most. The solo piece that I had played, with my fingers sliding across its neck, was an original inspired by my relationship with Adam.

Adam was my talented music partner back in college. I fell head over heels with him within the first couple of months of togetherness. He not only sang melodiously, but he was also an extremely sweet gentleman. We worked as a powerful duo for class assignments and projects, developing an indescribable chemistry between us, as a result. He had helped me grow tremendously as a professional musician and also as a breathing person.

It was two years later after the spark lit between us that he ended our relationship. I remember it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday, when he blurted out that he had cheated on me with another girl. I felt as if an invisible hand had slapped across my face, which was then already damp with the salty tears I shed. It was unforgivable, and undoubtedly unforgettable.

I moved on with my life in a cloudy mist. My world was fogged by what had happened. The hurt and the heart-wrenching pain dissolved into anger and rage, by which I struggled to keep them caged within myself. It was not until one day, that the lock of the cage burst open and the negative emotions took control over my consciousness. I smashed my guitar into pieces; the strings detached from the broken body. A silent promise was made, saying that I would never, ever set my hands on it again.

A year had passed now, and I stood in front of my bedroom, recalling the incident that had happened in there. As I entered the room I saw what I hated most. It was the guitar – my guitar – that was hoisted in its lone stand, only it was bruised all over its surfaces. Running along with hate, shock also attacked my nerves, in the most violent possible way. Curiosity followed at the end of the chain, like the tail of a well-fed, squishy, green caterpillar.

I asked my roommates if they knew who the suspicious anonymous was behind all this. When I was calm enough to think, the first person that popped into my consciousness was Adam; the Adam whom I fell deeply in love with; the Adam who snatched my heart and crushed it into millions of shards; the Adam who made me smash my guitar.

I drove around town and found his apartment. On the large mahogany door, bearing two knobs, I knocked with my knuckle. Within a split second, the door cracked open. Staring at the messy, dark curls hovering over a pair of hazel eyes, my heart leapt involuntarily. I knew it then, that he knew I knew it was him who had mended the shattered pieces of my treasured guitar.