Matias (3)

Dejan liked his guitar. Ibanez AX120, only ever played with .012 gauge strings, only on Orange amps and only with one pedal. The pedal was special, even more special than his guitar and his amp. A wah-wah, built from scratch by his brother in that room right over there. The room lay untouched since then, except for the soldering iron. That had been moved. Broken circuitry called and honoring the dead wasn’t going to bring the power back.

Dejan strummed lightly, enjoying the smooth sound as he worked his fingers across the worn fretboard. He found solace in his guitar, and he closed his eyes and let the sound impress its emotion on him. He rocked himself gently, back and forth to the rhythm of the chords and trills. I need to leave, thought Dejan. I can go…where can I go? California? Texas? Pheonix? His options seemed few. But it was fact, he had remained in this apartment too long. Memory was weighing him down. He could go out and start a band, be famous. Get laid. Sell his records and the circuit boards, get a car and drive to California. He could do it. He really could. Tell that bitch to fuck off, he wasn’t going to pay the rent anymore. What would she do, I’ll be in fucking California. Dejan smiled lazily, hanging on the note, stretching it out and bending it slowly. A bit of vibrato, and it’s done. He threw the guitar on the couch and turned on the tv as the strings hummed idly.

“…3000 dollars cash back. Act now, save… and for all the many tasks that require our attention, I believe tonight one calls on us to focus, to unite, and to…attempt on Prince Charles in Sydney, how does this affect…” Dejan flipped it to the channel that wasn’t supposed to be there. Whilst staring idly at the grainy off-colored footage of writhing bodies he decided. He was going to do something. He was going to California.

-David