The Wall

He woke up. Looking to the window he discovered it was light outside. He didn’t bother to scratch another line in the wall. It was only because of the searing pain. The pain was everywhere, especially his left wrist. He knew, all too well, it was because of what he had done that time before. He shifted his weight, then realized, the Wall had closed over at the top. He was completely alone now, what he had wanted. He smiled to himself yet again. Complete seclusion felt good. He never had to be bothered with life’s petty, dramatic shit. He got up excruciatingly slow, trying to “walk it off” as his father used to say. It was like daggers, plunging into him over and over with each step. He finally made it to his improvisational destination, his guitar. Taking it out of its case he gradually made his way to the music room. He rarely ever used it anymore. He has barely written a song in over a year. He plugged his guitar into a little floor amp sitting in the corner. He drew lines in the top of it, with the dust. He turned it on slowly adjusting the volume, then treble, then bass. He tuned the guitar, letting the sound of each string reverberate in his ear. Heaven. He played the arpeggio, just letting his sore, calloused fingers get used to the strings. He sighed and tears came to his eyes. What the hell is wrong with me? He placed the guitar on the floor, then his head in his hands letting the tears come down. Then he stopped, just stopped. He sniffled wiping his nose on his sleeve. He left the guitar on the floor, the amp on, and he went to bed.