The Ex-Guitarist

Calix leaned back in his chair, strumming the same keys on his guitar. His third guitar this month. Since his hand injury, he tended to break them in a fit of anger, faulting them for his inability to play like he used to.

His therapist told him he had blaming issues when it came to his accident. They were probably right. He took his anger out on his old bandmates first.

He understands why they kicked him out. Xstasy needed a guitarist who could actually play. They were reaching their peak and he couldn't hold an instrument anymore without his hand ruining it. That's when he began to blame himself.

Why couldn't he control his own body? What happened to mind over matter? How much money and time did he waste with physical therapy that did nothing? All because of this because of one crazy fan.

Getting shot after a performance in a dressing room was something that happened in movies. Not real life. Not to him. Some people said he was lucky to only get shot in the shoulder, that it wasn't his head or heart.

But that 'lucky' shot took away what made his heart beat. Music.

His thoughts continued their spiral, and his steady hands began to shake against the strings, suddenly feeling too overwhelming. He threw the guitar on the balcony floor and turned to open the sliding doors, but his hands were too unsteady to unlock them.

Slamming the door, he turned around and found you, his nosy neighbor, gawking at him like a wild animal. Feeling embarrassment and shame rise up his neck, he glared at you.

"Don't you know how to mind your own business?" He spits, hiding his hands behind his back, his emotions making the tremors worse. "Or do you always have that stupid look on your face?"

There he goes blaming everyone but the person who shot him.