|The Rage of a Rockstar
He smashed the Stratocaster on the wooden floor of the stage, the sound of the breaking chords echoing around the empty auditorium, circling once, twice, thrice before it penetrated the darkness inside his soul lighting it up like the Fourth-of-July fireworks. He raised his head to the heavens above and screamed, his vocal chords standing out green and blue, almost but not quite blending in with his blue-brown skin.
The peacock feather he wore around his neck a reminder of all he had loved and lost swayed, tickling him, gently reminding him that he still belonged to this world. But she did not. She was gone, and there was nothing that would bring her back. But Mishaal was not one who would take no for an answer. Not now, not ever.
He cringed as the word forever ricocheted around the corners of his mind before settling in a hard lump behind his eyes. He blinked as the tears gathered at the corner of his eyes, feeling the lump grow like a meteor from outer space, looming in size, larger, darker, till it encompassed his heart. Shaking his head—his waist-length-dirty-brown hair shivering as if it were a lion’s mane—he angrily shoved it back from his face and lifting the broken one-piece maple neck of the electric guitar he stretched his left arm back till the wood almost touched the curve of his back, and putting the weight of his six-feet-two-inch lean body behind it he flung it with all his might into the empty audience ranks.
Not caring where it landed he sank to his knees the tears now running down his cheeks unchecked and touched his forehead to the sawdust ridden floor. “Hey! Watch where you throw your broken pieces okay?” The indignant female voice had him jerking to his feet in a reflex action.
The unexpectedness of being caught in an intensely private moment of grief made him forget his misery for just a moment as he peered through the darkness of the spotlight which shone in his eyes. Squinting he held the palm of his hand over his eyes shielding them from the overhead glare, trying to make out who was out there.
The figure walked towards him, stepping out of the darkness slowly, giving his eyes ample time to travel up from her converse clad feet, over the long bronzed legs clad in blue jeans-shorts, up over the tantalizing peek of her midriff then the simple black T-shirt which formed a V shaped chain around her neck which held up a strong square jaw framing a delicate nose and almond shaped brown eyes which currently threw sparks of anger at him. She held the broken neck of the Stratocaster in her right arm. His left arm automatically rose again, this time to catch the piece of wood which she had angrily flung back at him.
“You are not the only one on this planet you know?” She continued her tirade as if not having noticed what she had interrupted.
“I believe you” he replied softly “I know I am not alone now.”
About Laxmi Hariharan (in my words): Though born in India, wanderlust drove me out of my home country, and I lived in Singapore and Hong Kong before being based in London where I now live. I am inspired by Indian mythology. It was in embracing my roots that I found my voice. My debut novel The Destiny of Shaitan is available on Amazon http://tiny.cc/szqsew. Reach me :