Scars Never Fade

"It was ok....average..." then she continued watching her favourite programme on the tele. Heart brokened as I was, I grabbed hold of my guitar together with my music notes, and headed for the stairs. "Is that all?" She questioned, creating an impression that she was presumably interested to hear more. "Yea, that should be all". I replied, and continued my way upstairs, regretting every moment spent playing that piece for her.

What was I thinking? Plucking my way through the words and music created by Richard Marx, smoothly was an absolutely impossible thing to do. On top of that, actually invite myself to play it for her. "After all, she is my angel. I'm positive that she would like it". Well, it proved otherwise didn't it?

Upon reaching my room door, I placed the notes on my bed, made myself comfortable with the stool available and started strumming the song, Right Here Waiting. This time, I played it slower, a lot slower than the earlier times that I used to play it. Somehow, each pluck of the guitar string created an ambigous, serene sound, so serene it struck the depths of my soul, so deep, tears started rolling down my cheeks. Did it sound that bad? Was it so meticulously abhorrent to listen to? I continued playing the piece, more intense now, weeping harder.

Memories unfolded in that short period of grief. Other intense occurences where I doubted their love and trust towards me. Such as the night before when we were over at my cousins' place, and I was shunned for the extra piercing in my ears. If I would ever want to see regret and disappointment in the eyes of my beloved, last night was it. I was a pure example of a sordid and disdainful attitude a 20 year old could have. A 20 year old, Indian Christian girl who has picked up the ominous habits, eventhough having lived her life amongst staunch Catholics and so-called respectable elders and honourable idols. Another thought drifted through my mind when they compared me with the self-proclaimed slut whom I have lost contact with since 3 years ago.

"Oh, look at her. Look at how matured and responsible person she is. Could you not be more like her instead? Do you have to be so rebellious? She was never as rude as how you are behaving now". These laconic and infamous words keep running through my mind, chanting every single night, bringing down the very foundation of me.

As I reached the last C chord, I strummed it with tears falling on the strings. My tears aint too acidic, its just salty, so the strings are safe and sound. Not to worry on that. Wiping it dry and blowing my running nose with the Premium Facial Tissue, I decided to open my vein. In other words, write my feelings down. Well, just as the once US columnist, journalist, sports writer and Pulitzer prize winner, Walter Wellesley said, " There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein".