The Last Note

A Story by missgreen

The Last Note

Music. This living force is the last thread that ensures, at the end of each day, I am still grasping on to what tatters of sanity remain. Throughout agonising times, the solace of melody has been loyal, thrusting worries, fear, indeed: sheer terror, to the back of my paranoid mind. And what terrifies me? Life. The desperate idea of losing another loved one, leaving my already crushed heart with nothing left to love. The intolerable pain of losing my way, so that everything and everyone I love drifts away from me. Music. The spirit that feeds me with its warm, welcoming tones. Music isn’t simply sound; its beauty.

Consequently, as I sit, strumming softly, I feel my heart glow with pure, undeniable joy, unlike any experience that I have had before. The sweet, enchanting rhythms envelop the room like a whisper of a love letter. Embracing me in its arms, the patterns warm my stone walls, melting my fears like wax. This is where I belong. No other sounds exist. Not the brash sound of video games being smeared by dirty fingers. Not the grating sound of incessant whining or shouting. And not the lonely sound of a dog's howl or the unsettling drone of the television. Just the miracle I hold in my hands.

Yet, no-one’s dreams can live forever and I was soon roused by the call of my mother: Dinner. Reluctantly, I placed my guitar in its case and traipsed downstairs towards the welcoming aroma of food. Contemplating the room, I took in my life. Perching, vivaciously, in her chair, 9 year old Grace sat. Bounding up and down, which made her strawberry blonde ringlets dance, she couldn’t help but beam. The smile I’ve grown to love was full of gappy teeth; endearing russet eyes gleamed up at me and a handful of freckles were sprinkled over her chubby features. Giving her an ineffectual smile, I sat down and stared at my two remaining siblings: Elsie had succeeded in scraping her birds nest of crimson waves into a respectively chaotic ponytail and fidgeted gracelessly. In the meantime, Francesca glanced around, her flawless golden locks cascading down her back. Azure eyes peered optimistically up at me full of anticipation but I merely looked down, suddenly fascinated by the tablecloth.

“Are you okay, honey?” queried my ever probing mother, placing a searing dish of spaghetti in front of me.

Sighing, I replied, “Yeah, well, I’m just tired, I suppose.”

Grace leaned across the table to hug me. I grimaced, awkwardly patting her back.

My mother is amazing. Whilst writing for a local newspaper, she takes care of her 4 unruly daughters. I could NEVER do what she does. Neither being the richest or the poorest family, we get by just fine. ‘As long as we have each other.’ Our father is a palaeontologist and spends his days locked away in the attic blowing dust of dinosaur bones and writing endless university lectures. However, don’t judge me-I adore him. Like everyone else in our family, he’s unique. Special.

Nevertheless, we all have the same unconditional hunger for one thing. Music. Frankie is fluent on the piano, her lean fingers ambling across the keys like ballerinas spiralling across the stage. Elsie is loud. Therefore, she relishes percussion, allowing the heavy beats to ricochet around the room. Even little Grace worships the flute, the whispery voices singing when she plays. And then there’s me. My siblings have always considered me as serious and focussed on my future. Long ginger curls gush down my back- determined, stormy grey eyes lay behind the glasses which perch on my nose. I admit, I am a bright child, but have no interest not patience for tiresome things like sport. Absorbed in only my school work or my music, I drive the world out of my life and concentrate on what I want to do. And what is that? Genuinely, I am confused. Mystified in this horrific world where nothing but unhappiness dwells. I find myself seeking for something to happen, to suddenly transform my life into something glamorous and accepted. Because I have NEVER been either of those things. In school, I am valued, but I will NEVER be popular. Always someone who will lend you equipment or give you extra tutoring, but NEVER anyone to talk to in a spontaneous conversation. Do I sound unhappy? Negative or selfish? Because you’re right: I am. I am selfish when I have my family, the ones who love and support me through everything. I am selfish when I have food to eat, water to drink and a house over my head.

“Are you okay?” a delicate voice resounds through my head.

Blushing, I awake in reality to find my family looking enquiring and alarmed.

Clutching my fork, I replied, “Perfectly normal, thank you.”

Appreciatively, the topic changed, so I was left to my own private thoughts. Barely noticing my mother give me a quick peck on the cheek and wishing me goodnight, I wandered upstairs to my bedroom and lay flat out on the bed. Emerald covers hugged my limbs and I inhaled the natural vanilla perfume which scented them. Pictures of many a musician were littered over my walls and I stood, transfixed at their ambitious faces. I am picky when Iit comes to music. No pop singer with over-rated sex appeal and auto-tuned songs will ever appeal to me. A genuine person who writes from their heart, plays from their soul and who has believed in themselves their entire lives.

Driving myself away from the persuading covers, I padded into Grace’s room, listening to the sound of her deep breathing. Many who come into our household think that I do not care for my family. I am ‘ungrateful and ignorant.’ They could not be more wrong. My family are the most vital, imperative things in the world to me. However, I can never express my emotions as carelessly as Elsie, as lovingly as Francesca or give a unpretentious hug like Grace. I seem foreign and separated from my family if you don’t belong in our walls. They accept me though. I‘ve discovered that after all these years, they know that I love them and this is my ridiculous little way of showing my affections. Carefully, I drew the covers over her body and tucked a golden ringlet behind her ear.

“Goodnight, Grace,” I breathed and gradually shut her door. Walking into my own room, I crawled under the covers and shut my eyes, attempting to erase my mind of the overwhelming memories. The stench of the past and what’s to come. Ultimately, I settled into sleep, dreaming of guitars, spaghetti and strawberry blonde ringlets.