Page 590 of One More Kiss

I hate the darkness.

The voices within my head seem to awaken when the day fades, constantly belittling me, making me question myself and everything around me. When that happens, they have me hating myself. Hating my very existence. The voices taunt me, confuse me, and have me questioning everything and everyone. Even though I know it’s not real, it tears me down. The hits coming so rapidly I can’t evade them. All I can do is desperately try to beat them back.

Sighing as my reprieve once again escapes, I grab my guitar and begin to play, quietly singing as my fingers stroke the strings, coaxing beautiful music from the gleaming instrument.

The music also helps. When I play, the voices quiet. They too love the melody. Playing is the one thing I feel as though I’m good at. The one thing where I’m noticed and people, most people, love listening to me.

Most people… not my family. Music, the thing I love the most, and that one thing that quells the beast within, is simply one more thing about me that is unacceptable to my parents.

They realized early on that their big dreams for me would never come to fruition. All they wanted was a prodigal son. Someone to proudly carry on the family name and take over their thriving law practice. But their dreams were never my own. I have never wanted that path.

Therapist after therapist and shrink after shrink told them that their only child was damaged. Broken. But they refused to believe it. They pushed and pushed. Always bringing me for a second opinion. Then a third… forth… fifth… and so on. They wanted just one person to find the magic medicine that would “fix” me. As though I can be fixed.

They still push, for me to be the child they wanted instead of the child they received. I can’t change who I am. I’ve tried. I keep trying.

They’ve practically given up on me. Which is hard, because every day, I want to give up on myself. But then every morning, I watch the sunrise and see the start of a new day. It brings me a sliver of hope that someone, somewhere, will see me and accept me for who I am. Flaws, chemical imbalances, and all. But every night, when the sun sets and the darkness once again descends, the dark thoughts mess with my mind. The demons who wait in the shadows beckon to me, trying to convince me to give in to their demands.

So, I’ll play my music. I’ll play until my fingers bleed if I have to. I play my guitar and sing my songs because the music beats back the darkness, if only for a time.

My voice rises, and carries, as I play, and sing. The sound carrying on the wind. A bill falls into my guitar case, and I glance up, curious as to who dropped the twenty. My eyes widen as I see the striking woman standing in front of me. She’s staring at my guitar as my fingers glide over the strings, as though they hold the answer to whatever question she seeks.

She watches my hands play as I watch her. Her dark curls lift with the night air. A summer storm is coming in. Her eyes are cloaked by the shadows that highlight the planes and angles of her high cheekbones and perfectly formed lips.

I cannot look away. Neither can she, though she’s focused on the tattoos on my fingers as I lovingly play my guitar. Her eyes are locked on them, unblinking.

The song ends and I draw out the chords, not wanting her to leave.

Silence echoes in the night as she continues to watch my hands while I yearn for her to raise her gaze, to look at me, to show me the color of her eyes.

I bet they’re hazel. Her eyes will be hazel.

A deep, resounding sigh that awakens something deep within my soul leaves her throat. Her lips twist wryly, not quite creating a smile, as she whispers, “You play beautifully. I felt the music. It seemed to call to me, and I had to see who was playing the melancholy melody.” Her eyes lift and our eyes meet under the streetlight. Hazel to blue.

I knew it.

My stomach tightens while all of the air leaves my lungs.

She’s strikingly beautiful.

Her eyes. They give her away.

They’re tormented. Lost. The light within them is barely shining.

I feel an instant connection.

Why is this beautiful woman so desolate?

Perhaps we’re kindred souls.

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