Page 31 of Composed
MybedroomspinsasI step inside on swaying feet.
I kick my shoes off, trip over a heavy Dr Marten boot, and crash into my dresser.
My eyes shutter closed.
I peel off my little black dress and throw it behind me. Goosebumps flicker across my skin as wind creeps through the open window, caressing my lingerie clad skin. The only thing I should do right now is crawl into bed, cuddle my pillow, and pass the fuck out.
I don’t.
Curling my fingers around brass knobs, I drag my wardrobe open before dropping to my knees. I root around the base shelf, shoving past old clothes that no longer fit, until I’m gripping the wicker basket tucked away in the back.
I tug it out and dig through it.
T-shirts fly over my shoulder, one by one, until I find a Papa Roach one. I hug it to my chest, press my face into the worn fabric, and inhale. My heart sinks when my sense of smell remains untouched.
There’s nothing left.
I stand and pull it over my head anyway.
The fraying hem drops to my thighs, the overstretched neck drooping across one shoulder. I curl my arms around my waist as my heavy eyelids sting.
Go to bed Hendrix,I urge.
Still, I don’t.
I push up onto my tiptoes, and grapple with the ledge of the top shelf as I reach for the box hidden away at the back. Laden cardboard heavy in my hand, I stumble. The back of my knees hit the bed. A cloud of dust gathers around me. I waft it away, choking on the dry air, before placing the box on the black duvet.
I know I should listen to the voice in my head.
I’ve had one too many drinks for this to be a remotely good idea.
I start to turn, to accept defeat, and climb into bed, but my gaze snags on the back of the wardrobe.
A black leather case sits there, untouched as the years have passed by.
Pulled by instinct alone, I reach out and snatch the handle.
It’s heavier than I remember.
I place it on the bed, tap the leather case once, and ease the clasps open.
A sharp breath tears from my lungs.
I trace the smooth ebony contours of my Gibson Hummingbird, the wood cool under my heated touch. Lifting it out, I hug it to my chest and perch on the edge of the bed. It nestles into my lap, the familiar weight uncomfortable.
I pluck a pick from the cardboard box.
Fingers trembling, I place them along the strings and a hissed, brittle sound spills from the body when I strum.
It’s all you ever dreamed of…
Cole wasn’t wrong when he said those words to me. There was a time when all I wanted was to create with this guitar. But I wasn’t lying either when I said the music died. A day came where I just let it go.
I close burning eyes and my head lolls forward.
The scent of aging wood tickles my nose, before reaching into the recesses of my mind and dragging an untold story from the depths. Myshoulders shake, a harsh sob tearing out of my chest as the broken melody cuts through the air and begs me to come home.
Chapter eleven
