Play, he snarls for the millionth time this evening. My fingers have no choice but to slide over the strings again. I no longer control them. I wince as the pain shoots through my fingers up my arms. I catch a glimpse of my fingertips as they slide up and down the bridge of my Stratocaster, and I am sure I can see specs of blood on the strings.
His eyes hypnotised me when he walked through the door, the smile bewitched. In his velvet jacket and leather pants, I simply could not resist the request for a private concert.
Faster, he says, lips curling back to reveal his pearly canines. I shudder, and my fingers obey. He smiles as the music spirals around him; his foot tapping like a pendulum in time with the beat my hand meets on the wooden body of my baby. I pull the guitar a little closer to my body.
I clear my throat. “You might find the music more pleasurable if my band joined me,” I say, not for the first time. Again, he seems to consider the thought, but declines with a dismissive hand.
Play.
My hands obey.
I ran out of original songs to play hours ago. I no longer recognise the tunes my hands are playing, but there is an obvious connect with something primal here. The rhythm has changed to something older, and I imagine hearing chanting in the substream.
I had this idea this morning for a story. This is the beginning. I think the idea would make for a nice graphic novel. Now I just need an artist…
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