The Guitarist

[Dead Aim]

I have had this idea in my head for a while and have just began typing it. The main character, Inochi, has evolved quite a bit from my original concept. Other than him, I haven't planned anything out at all. I just type my ideas and edit them later to add descriptions, details, etc. It's not finished yet, but I hope you like what I have written so far.

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A young man entered a run-down coffee shop at the end of a deserted city street. His black hair was sculpted into several long spikes that hung low over his face. He wore a black tank underneath a black, unbuttoned dress shirt. The cuffs of the shirt were undone to reveal a black armband around his right wrist and steel chains around his left.

His pants were baggy, black, and adorned with an assortment of large metal chains. They had several more pockets than necessary; each with a shiny steel zipper that seemed to smile a most evil grin. The man’s feet were encased in heavy leather combat boots, the color of course being black. The toe of either boot was sheltered by a shell of stainless steel, through which was driven three large screws.

The man’s grey and gold eyes were shielded from the blinding darkness of the night by a pair of black, rimless spectacles. Finally, a silver chain encircled his neck and supported an antique silver cross.

Upon entrance, the man was greeted by the bartender’s gritty voice, “Ah, Inochi, you’re finally here. I’ve already got the stage set up for you.”

“Let me have a smoke and then I’ll be ready.” said Inochi. His voice was distant and hollow, as if he had spoken the same phrase a million times before.

“But you’re late already! Can’t you wait until after the show!?” the bartender asked impatiently, his voice raspy from the decades of second-hand smoke.

“No, I always smoke before I play. If these people have waited this long, a couple more minutes won’t hurt.” again, his voice was distant like he had gone through this same scenario before.

“Alright, but make it quick. The owner’s paying you by the hour and the clock started at midnight.” said the exasperated bartender as he looked at the clock, which read twelve fifteen.

“I know.” said Inochi with a smile. He had done this before. At nearly every show he would arrange to be paid by the hour, and then show up late with the clock already adding to his pay. Had he not been talented, his previous clients would not have overlooked this little stunt.

He took a seat at the counter and sat down the black guitar case he had been carrying. Out of one of his many pockets he drew a pack of cigarettes (many of which were bent or broken) and a sliver zippo. He removed one of the badly bent cancer sticks from its package and placed it in his mouth, flipping open the zippo and lighting it with his other hand. He then took a puff and exhaled, contributing to the thick cloud of smoke that hung over the heads of the coffee shop’s patrons. “Ahh, passive suicide.” he said to nobody in particular.

The comment caught the bartender’s attention,”What are you talking about?”

“The way I see it, I’m not going to live past thirty.” he took another puff, “Shaving a few years off my natural life-span won’t hurt me a bit.”

“You’re a weird one Inochi.” said the slightly confused bartender.

“I know.” he said with a smile. A few minutes later, Inochi put his cigarette out in the ashtray that rested on the counter. He rose to his feet and picked up the guitar case, “Where’s the stage?”

“Over there, on the far wall.” the bartender motioned to the wall to his right, opposite the coffee shop’s main entrance.

Inochi made his way through the crowd of shadows to the elevated wooden platform that was the stage. Upon it stood an old wooden stool and a microphone that was a little worse for wear. He took a seat on the stool and opened up the case, revealing a rather unique guitar.

Its edges were lined yellow and faded gently in to the black center. The paint had been applied in such a manner that the instrument appeared to be made of marble, grey clouds of luminescence appearing and disappearing at random. The frets and pick guard were fashioned from antique mother-of-pearl and added a sense of contrast to the guitar. It had eight silver strings, each of which appeared to have been broken in many times over.

Without looking he removed a matching mother-of-pearl guitar pick from one of this smaller pockets. It was an impressive feat, considering how many pockets he actually had. Next, he took the guitar in hand and began the tuning process; plucking each string with a gentle rhythm that was a music unto itself.

When finished, he leaned forward to speak into the microphone, “Good evening. My name is Hikaru Inochi and I will be your entertainment for the evening. I’ll warn you ahead of time that my music is... different, than anything you’ve heard before tonight. All I ask is that you listen and try to feel the emotions behind the lyrics.” He positioned his guitar and began to play the intro to the first song. It was a sad mellow tune, reminiscent of something Johnny Cash would play, but also with a uniqueness all its own. Then came the lyrics:

“Living in Hell,
Knowing just pain.
My blood, it flows;
Dripping like rain.

Forever lost
In my dark dreams.
I feel my reality
Burst at the seams.”

His voice began as a low whisper, barely audible even with the microphone, and then slowly rose to fill the room. He easily conveyed the sadness of the verse to the shadows that haunted the far corners of the coffee shop. Then came the chorus:

“How many tears
Can one soul cry
Before it gives up
And wishes to die?

How many hymns
Can one angel sing
Before it is stained
And loses its wings?

How many hardships
Can one demon make
Before it is captured
And burned at the stake?”

The intensity with which he sang seemed to overwhelm the audience. In the dim candlelight, the faint shimmer of a tear could be seen on the faces of many. The song’s lyrics struck an empathetic nerve in those who heard them and forced them to feel the same pain that Inochi had felt when the song was written. He began the second verse, his voice in perfect harmony with the hypnotic strumming of the guitar’s strings:

“As my blade slides
Across my cold skin,
I remember the hurt.
Never again...

Unable to feel
My wrist as it bleeds,
I see my life flowing
Through arteries.”

Inochi’s face softened as sobs of despair erupted from within the audience. This was his way of sharing his emotions. Whenever he performed, the pools of anger and sadness that resided inside him lessened just a little. Every time an audience member burst into tears, Inochi was able to forgive himself for doing the same so many years ago. He recited the chorus again, this time with a tone of painful assuredness that could only have come from past experience:

“How many tears
Can one soul cry
Before it gives up
And wishes to die?

How many hymns
Can one angel sing
Before it is stained
And loses its wings?

How many hardships
Can one demon make
Before it is captured
And burned at the stake?”

Suddenly the room was ablaze with the flames of lighters as the audience gave him a standing ovation. Their faces shone brightly in the light of the various zippos, revealing that not a single person was without a teary eye. At that moment, Inochi regained another piece of what he had lost so long ago. He shed a tear of his own as he began the third and final verse:

“It seems all my life
I was destined to die.
Whether it be quiet
Or by suicide.

Just as my consciousness
Starts slipping away,
The world becomes silent
And night turns to day.”

This time the verse was followed by an intricately constructed guitar solo in which Inochi was able to express himself more freely than in the lyrics themselves; if that was possible. He closed his eyes as he played, pouring what was left of his nearly nonexistent soul into the instrument. A great wail of acoustic beauty bellowed forth into the audience. The beat then slowed as Inochi prepared to sing the chorus for the last time:

“How many tears
Can one soul cry
Before it gives up
And wishes to die?

How many hymns
Can one angel sing
Before it is stained
And loses its wings?

How many hardships
Can one demon make
Before it is captured
And burned at the stake?”

His voice faded to a whisper and then disappeared altogether. The coffee shop was filled with a deafening silence that threatened to consume the minds of its inhabitants. Suddenly the audience erupted into applause, causing Inochi to truly smile for the first time in over a month. He gently placed the guitar into the case and closed it; he needed a few minutes to regain his composure. “Thank you all. I’ll be back in a couple minutes; I need a drink.” he said into the microphone as he walked off stage.

Inochi made his way through the still clapping crowd to his seat at the far end of the counter, “Give me a cappuccino; hold the coffee and make it cold.”

“But that’s only a chocolate milk.” the bartender pointed out, as if Inochi were ignorant of the simplicity of his order.

“I know; now hurry up and make it,” his patience was wearing thin, “I need to get back on stage.”

“So soon?” A lady in a black and crimson kimono seated herself next to Inochi. Her hair, black as the night that had long since descended onto the city, was held in a bun by two ebony chopsticks. A small tuft of bangs gave way to deep, green eyes accented by a layer of red eyeshadow and black eyeliner. Lastly, her lips were scarlet with lipstick and helped emphasize the recessive shades of red that resided on her clothing. Her facial structure denoted oriental dissent.

Something about the woman’s appearance gave Inochi the impression that they had met before. Wishing to discover why he suddenly had a sense of deja vu, he replied, “Well, I suppose I could spare a few minutes. After all, I’m being payed by the hour.”

“Is that so?” This time her accent became more evident. She was definitely Japanese. “You’re quite a talented singer.” her voice was soft and inviting.

“Thank you.” He had to find out more about this woman, “What, if may I ask, is your name.” he didn’t introduce himself, remembering that he already had while on stage.

“I’m Itsuki Hana.” She turned on her stool to better see Inochi’s face, “I’m just curious, but why are your lyrics so sad?”

“My songs are based on experience. The one I just finished singing, I wrote it after I did this.” He removed his chains and wristband to reveal that his wrists were lined with scars of various lengths.

The woman remained calm despite the heart wrenching sight that lay before her, “What could possibly be so terrible that it would cause you to disregard the sanctity of your own life?” She said this as if she already knew the answer.

“I’ve been through hell and back, Itsuki. My father left when I was five, shortly after my sister, was born. Then, when I was seventeen, my mother contracted a rare form of cancer and died soon after. I was left to raise my little sister, Koeru, by myself. I had trouble making ends meet, so I was forced to do some odd jobs. Some of them were illegal, but all of them were dangerous.” His eyes began to water. “I happened to cross the wrong person and my sister had to pay for it with her life.”
The bitterness in his voice began to show and the woman was taken aback, “I’m sorry. But now I ‘m certain that you’re the one I need.”

“Excuse me, but what do you mean by that?” he was still stunned that he had just divulged his life story to a complete stranger; even if she did look familiar. Waiting for a response, he removed his sunglasses and wiped the tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

“I own this coffee shop and as you can see,” she motioned behind her to the small crowd of people, “we don’t get much business anymore. The bank was going to foreclose on the shop so I took out a loan from a couple shady characters I had heard talking business in here before. When I was unable to pay them back, they broke into my apartment on the upper floor and kidnapped my daughter. All they left was a ransom note.” this time, it was she that burst into tears, “I tried to get help from the police, but they said that they don’t negotiate with terrorists.” Her voice quivered with each syllable that escaped her ruby red lips.

Inochi felt empathy for the woman, for he understood the war she waged against herself within the confines of her mind. “I’m sorry to hear that, but what could I possibly do?” He knew that it was a stupid question, considering the skills his “odd jobs” had required him to obtain, but he wasn’t quite willing to relive his past for someone he had just met.

Regaining her composure, Itsuki replied, “A man said that I should look for a guitarist named Inochi. He said you would help me. It’s been three days now and I know nothing of my daughter’s wherabouts. Please, won’t you help me?” she willed herself not to cry, but the tears began to flow again, regardless.

It was then, seeing her beautiful face stained with tears, that Inochi knew of whom he was reminded: his mother. He couldn’t stand it, seeing his mother incarnate; especially sobbing like this. It reminded it too much of the countless nights he was unable to sleep for the sound of his mother weeping in the room across the hall. He had to find her daughter. He hoped that doing so would allow him to forgive himself for not being able to protect Koeru six years ago. “Alright, I’ll do it; but under one condition.”

She sniffed, “What’s that?”

“Don’t cry.” Although they had just met, he couldn’t bear to see her face wet with tears.

Inochi looked away from Itsuki and realized that the bartender had been standing there, listening the whole time. “Where’s my milk?” he asked sharply, his face once again cold and emotionless. It was how he always looked when he was deep in thought. How was he going to save this girl?

[Cypher]

excelent writeing some of your best so far

[gangsta_squall]

This my friend is impressive. I'm stupefied! There is something really special here. Keep up this rather interesting premise.