The musician

The glory days and I’m up on stage, the lights meltingly hot. The sweat drizzled crowd, their upturned faces screaming at us, at me, and what he can do to me. Us, me and him, we’re all about the music. I fly. Ecstasy. Each chord sending shivers down my strings, shaking the air, sending shockwaves through the audience who convulse, like the last dying heard beat. The drummer thumps out the pulse, the tempo stretched to our limits, the solo, the build up, his grand finale, me, his support. He’d be nothing without me.

He flings his arms wide and I fall, hitting the floor, hard and unforgiving with a crunch and a jangle of broken strings. He flies solo into the audience. Now they’re holding him up, flotsam on a tide of success. I lie here watching, an indulgent parent, and him my spawn. I gave him life so that he could take mine.

By Laura Mingins