Six Stringed

                The witch turned me into what I am. Immobile. Mute. Blind. At least she gave me the feeling of sense. I could picture what was going around with sense, much like seeing without eyes.

                I was walking in the woods – more like through the woods actually. I was in a hurry to get to a friend’s house, but the reason seems very blank now, so irrelevant after this.

                She was sitting down next to a large oak tree, asking for food. I didn’t have any on me, so I disregarded her. Then as I turned to rush off, I was frozen to the spot; I couldn’t move. She got up and faced me; I can’t remember what she looked like, but I remember her voice. It was confident, shrill, raspy, and spiteful. “For the ungrateful, greedy, and unkind-” she recited as she moved around my helpless, frozen self. “-a penalty shall be bestowed. Strings plucked and knobs wind, sound is best heard, not shown. Pain and beauty go side by side, and all will be revealed in good time.” I felt a buzzing sensation inside me, and I was terrified. “Hollowed and wooden–” My stomach started aching. “–gaping in center–” my stomach lurched and I felt a horrible grinding pain inside of it. “–plucked both tunes–” The front of my stomach and chest started itching, and then the skin there started to feel tight. “–both tight–” I screamed as my skin tightened to the point where I thought it would rip. “–and loose–” The skin stopped pulling, but now my ears were ringing. “–at the base is tethered–” Something at my naval started hurting. The witch said more words, but I was screaming so loud, I drowned her out. I passed out, and woke up in a pawnshop.

                She turned me into a guitar.

                The years were terrible. I was bought immediately by a couple to be given as a present to their first-born child. However, the child favored the piano, who was quite the snobby one. When the witch transformed me into an instrument, I realized that a few other instruments met the same fate–some were previously people.  I also learned that all instruments have souls and spirits, except most are native to the music realm; the others–like me–are not. The child plucked me happily at first, and the sounds resonated through me joyously. I loved the feeling. Then the child took up piano, and stuck with it. After a few months, the couple pawned me again. I ended up in the same situation as before, except at a different pawnshop in a different town.

                The next to buy me was a temperamental man trying to win back his old girlfriend. She had fallen for an aspiring musician. When he tried to learn on me, he was easily frustrated and even threw me a few times. He strummed at my strings that were now out of tune. He hated the sound so much, he started learning the drums. Once he got the girl, he didn’t need me anymore. The drum set mocked me before the man sold me.

                My third customer was a middle-aged woman who was going through her mid-life crises. She had bought a red Ferrari, hit on younger men, and was thinking about joining her local nightclub’s band as a guitarist. She learned quickly, but she never tuned me. Though even without tuning, she somehow made me sound decent. When she went to the nightclub to audition, everything went well. It worsened when she had her first gig there. She left me onstage, and some drunkard came up and tore one of my knobs off. It was like having your ear sliced off. I have never had my ear sliced off when I was a human, but I knew that the pain I felt would be the equivalent of that. She sold me after getting enough money to buy a better one, an electric one. Even that one spoke bad of me the days before I was sold.

                I went through that cycle for a few years, maybe two or three. Every time someone would buy me, they would play me, they wouldn’t tune or clean me, they wouldn’t care for me either. I’d always be sold dingier and more broken than the condition I had been bought at previously.

                One time was particularly bad. A man had bought me and took out all his problems as physical abuse to me, especially when he became frustrated when his attempts to learn me were futile. He then sold me for a cheap price to a local shopkeeper. The shopkeeper was going to take mercy on me, though, and scrap me. Completely trash me and use my parts to make a better, newer guitar. I was in so much pain and felt so abandoned, I wanted him to do it. Then, she walked in.

                Her red hair was curly and reached down to her waist. Her green eyes shone like a gem I had once seen in my human life. Her dress would have been described as ‘boho’ from the public. Her feet were adorned in a shoe brand I remembered from my old life called Converse. They were bright purple. Bracelets were stacked on both pf her wrists, both metal and string woven. Her skin was pale, and it reminded me of elephant tusks. What the pianos I met always called ‘ivory’ or something like that. She saw me, and her eyes lit up. I braced myself for this next cruel stage. “He looks beat up pretty bad.” He? Did she know I used to be human? “Yes.” Said the shopkeeper. “I was just about to put him in the scrap pile.” Her eyes grew large and terrified. “Oh no. Don’t do that.” She put her hand into a pocket and took out something leather. “Let me buy him from you.” If I could still gulp, I would have.

                *                                                                              *                                                                              *

                “You have a story to tell me.” She kept looking at me as she carried me out. “You’re so damaged. But I’ll fix you.” She smiled and I felt something hum inside of me. “I’ll take care of you.”

                She took me to at least five different stores, showed me to the shop owners, bought something, and carried it out in a plastic bag. We went to a large building, and she took me up a few flights of stairs before we entered her apartment. She emptied out the contents of the bags. Lots of metal strings, screws, wood, and knobs were scattered around us. She scampered into another room to find tools, humming as she did so. That’s when I noticed a mirror close by. When I turned my sense on its reflection of me, I was disturbed by what I saw.

                I was a sight to see. My neck was broken, and chipped in some places. Four out of six of my strings were broken, and the other two were strained. My body was battered, had holes, was dingy, and–to put it quite frank–simply awful. My headstock was terrible–scratches all around it to where it was misshapen. Two of my tuning knobs were broken off. I tried to remember how my second one became broken as the girl reentered the room, carrying objects in with her. Once she set everything down, she smiled and clapped her hands. “Let’s get to work.”

                I didn’t know what she wanted me to do, so I just stayed still. It’s not like I could’ve done more anyway.

                She plucked out my old strings, and put in new ones. She refurbished my old knobs and replaced ones that were too damaged. She took some sort of machine and sanded down my wooden body, and then she glued on pieces of wood, sanded it together, and put something liquidy over it that made me feel healthy and fed. Then she put a darker liquid over me, as if she was painting me. She undid the top of my strings and did the same with my neck, replacing the old chipped fret bars with new, shiny, golden ones. Then she replaced the base where my strings reach over my sound hole. She sanded and refurbished my sound hole and repaired minor damages on the inside before she reattached my strings. Then she did something no one ever did.

                She tuned me.

                She twisted my knobs every which way, and I loved it. Once she tuned me, she left all strings open and strummed them. The feeling was absolutely amazing. It was as if someone had woken me up from a refreshing dream, or given me such a warm coat on a freezing day. It felt nice. I felt happy.

                She played a tune on me for a while; at least it felt like a while. Then she picked me up and took me through a doorway. The room she took me in was full of other music instruments. There was a piano, a trumpet, a flute, a drum set, an electric guitar with an amplifier, a violin, and a saxophone. I felt their invisible eyes watching me as she sat me down in a corner on a stand that propped me up. She walked away without saying another word, turned off the light, and closed the door.

                Even in the darkness, my senses formed pictures of the other instruments as if the light was never turned off. The first to speak was the piano.

                “And what’s your story, six string?” Her voice wasn’t too pleasant–snobby, stuck up. It reminded me of the popular girls that used to strut around my high school thinking that they were on top of the world. Now they’re older, they still haven’t changed. I wonder if the piano was like that at a younger age. I wouldn’t ask her though. “I was turned into a guitar by a witch.” I had said this many times over the years to other instruments. They laughed, scoffed, and paid me no heed after they found out I wasn’t a real instrument, like most of them. The piano clicked her keys in an amusing way. “Another one? Deryl, looks like you’re not alone!” She clicked her keys more, as if laughing at my misfortune. “Leave the poor young lad alone, Merissa!” Buzzed the saxophone. “Ain’t no shame in being transformed.” If I still had lips, I would smile. “And what brings you here, lad?” At least Deryl the Sax was nice.

                “She took me from the pawn shop in this town. Then she restored me.” The thought of it made my strings hum with happiness. “Ah, give it two days.” The violin squeaked. “You’re nothing but a lost cause, and you will be nothing but a lost cause.”

                “Put your stick in it, Marcy.” Deryl replied. “You’d think you violins would be more hospitable.”

                “I’m a viola!” Her E Major chord was high and shrill.

                Deryl let out a small vibrato. “No wonder you’re so cold-hearted!”

                “You don’t have one either!”

                “You’re being too literal, Marcy.” Deryl buzzed again.

                “Hmph. Whatever, you crazy sax.” I didn’t hear her speak anymore; maybe she fell asleep.

                “Well lad, rest well tonight. I’m heading off. Don’t let them push your buttons. Or in your case, pluck your strings.” He wheezed a laugh and soon fell asleep. I was just about to do the same when Merissa spoke.

                “Marcy’s right, ya know.” She huffed, trying to come off as high and mighty.

                “About Deryl not having a heart?” I played a sarcastic note. “Because in the literal sense, Marcy is right.”

                My past with pianos was not a good one; I developed a disliking towards the key-string instrument. I knew what to say to get their strings out of tune, which I loved to do. Is it right? Probably not. Do I enjoy it? Yes. Yes I do.

                “No you imbecile!” Her F sharp was out of tune now. “About you being a lost cause. Every time the girl rescues a non-pure instrument, they end up being scrapped.” Her low B flat purred in a mocking way. “She can tell, ya know. She can tell you’re not a real instrument. That’s what happened to Deryl. He’s just wasting away now until she gets sick of the space he takes up. Then she’ll scrap him. Just like she’s going to scrap you!” Her keys jittered annoyingly. “So enjoy your home with the musician while it lasts, six string.”

                I had no reply. Receiving a comment like that, especially after what the girl had done for me today, made me wonder. Would she really scrap me? It didn’t make sense, because if she wanted to, she wouldn’t have restored me. She wouldn’t have taken all that time, spent all that money, just to throw me away.

                Would she?

                *                                                                              *                                                                              *

                My worst fears were starting to come true (Other than the one about me not being able to see my friends or family again). She kept playing me and the other instruments every day, like I expected. But she spent less and less time playing me. In a few days, she stopped playing me at all. Merissa the piano would always ridicule me, even more than Marcy would. Deryl defended me only so much though. “You have to stand up for yourself, boy. I can’t be there whenever a key-string instrument decides to talk bad about you.” He had a point, and no matter how bad I wanted to throw insults back at Merissa’s keys and out of tuned F Sharps and B Flats, I knew it would lead me nowhere. It wouldn’t change me back human, it wouldn’t allow me to speak with the girl, nor would it allow the girl to start playing me again. I threw sarcastic comments and shook off everything the piano said when everyone was alert and awake. But when I was the only one conscious in the music room, my thoughts were burdened with despair and abandonment.

                It had been five, maybe six days before the girl had even plucked my strings. Today, when she came in at the time she did every day, she headed straight for me. I didn’t think anything of it until she picked me up by the neck and smiled at me. “Hope your strings are well rested. We’re going on a date.” I heard Merissa’s keys jolt up and down with disgust. “I’ll come back later for you, Deryl!” She called as she left the room with me in her hand.

                She knew Deryl’s name? Did she know he wasn’t a real instrument? Did she know that I wasn’t a real instrument? She picked me up properly and strummed me as she took me to her car. “You know, I haven’t named you yet.” She names her instruments? I had never met anyone who had done such a thing. However, it seemed like the other instruments didn’t mind their new names; they were calling each other by their names freely ever since I had arrived. I wonder what she would name me.

                “I had an idea of what I would name you, but I think after today, we’ll find out for sure.” I sensed her smile as she played a melody on my strings, somehow miraculously still in tune.

                She placed me in a case in the back seat and drove for a while. For a majority of the ride, I tried to unravel her words. We’re going on a date. The first images that came to mind was two people having dinner at a restaurant. That couldn’t be; even she wouldn’t take a guitar to a restaurant as her date. But I started to doubt it ever so slightly when the car came to a stop.

                The sun, grass, and the sound of many people milling around caught my attention. We were at a park. Did she plan to have our date at a park? She picked me up by the neck again and strolled on, locking her car as she did so. Her walk didn’t take long, but with all the questions I had, it felt like a fermata was being held over it. She sat down on a bench and strummed me for a few moments. I thought this was it; this is the date she had said. I was all right with this, just sitting with the girl and having her play me for a while in a nice park. But I was wrong.

                Because then he showed up.

                A boy, about the girl’s age walked up to her. “Claire!” He said happily. “Simon.” She wore a smile and her voice was musical when she spoke his name. She set me down gently and embraced the boy. His deep brown eyes glistened with happiness. He had pale skin, but tanner than the girl’s – than Claire’s. He wore a bright blue beanie cap atop his messy, brown hair covered head. He had a plaid shirt, jeans, and green skater shoes – Vans, I think. I didn’t normally pay so much attention to someone’s appearance, but Claire studied him intensely, so I did so too. Was there something odd about his appearance? Then something strummed inside of me, but it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. I studied Claire’s expression. I remembered the look on her face very well. She loved him.

                The way she looked at him, it wasn’t a schoolgirl crush gaze. I could tell the difference between simple infatuation and real love. It was clear that Claire was in love with Simon, and by the way he was returning the gaze, he felt the same way too. Something inside me felt sour. Had I fallen for Claire somewhere along the way? I sighed, my low E string buzzing lightly. It didn’t matter now; Claire loved Simon and Simon loved Claire. I wouldn’t destroy whatever they had; it was immoral! It’s not like I could’ve done so anyway.

                “I came to play for you.” She spoke; my attention snapped to her as she spoke. Simon smiled. “Then play for me, but after we have some fun.” He motioned to the park behind them–the swing sets, slides, monkey bars, merry-go-rounds, and more. She turned and looked at something beside me. I didn’t follow her gaze; my metaphorical heart was torn in two. “Ma’am, will you look after my guitar for a bit?”

                “Of course, dear.” That voice. I knew that voice. Raspy. Shrill. Confident. “We’ll try and be quick–”

                “Take your time, you two.” I sensed her fully now. She took the form of an innocent looking old woman, but I felt her real spirit within the disguise. Claire and Simon brightened up. “Thank you!” They said happily in unison. As they turned to run off for their park date, the witch turned to me. “We meet again, greedy one.” Her voice dripped with spite. “You’ve been enjoying your new life too much.” She smiled an evil smile. “Most instruments I transform die spiritually within the first week, but your life was amusing the watch. Nevertheless, right when you were about to die, this girl comes in. Now, I will not mess with the girl, because everyone will get suspicious if I cannot cover up my tracks well enough. Moreover, being an old woman, my memory and skills are not what they used to be. So I’ll just take care of you.”

                Then I felt the pain. The same pain I felt years ago when she made me into this, into what I am today. I was lying on my back in the woods behind the park in my human body now, in the clothes that I wore before my new life. “Sadly, I’ll need to kill your spirit before I turn you back into a guitar. I’ll need to this while you’re human.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Magic is complicated. You wouldn’t understand.” While she talked, I threw dust and rocks in her eyes. The act was impulsive; I wasn’t thinking what I would’ve done if I had stayed human. If I could return to my family, go back to school, continue my normal life, none of that. All I thought about was Claire.

                I knocked the witch unconscious with a few blows to the head. Once I made sure she was out cold, I felt the pain again. The same pain I had felt years ago when she transformed me. I blacked out again, and opened my eyes. Only, I didn’t have eyes. I had senses.

                I was lying down on the bench again; an echo of my strings ringing in what would’ve been my ears. A few minutes went by as I recalled what had happened earlier: Simon and Claire’s date, leaving me with the witch, the witch trying to kill me, me knocking the witch unconscious, and me turning back into a guitar. Back to square one. Again.

                Claire came rushing back with Simon a little later. She scoffed, annoyed. “What a lying old woman!” Huffing, she stomped her foot. “She just left him unattended.” Simon put his hands on her shoulders and calmed her down. “It’s alright.” He said softly. “He’s here, and we’re here. I believe you owe me a song.” They smiled and sat down. Claire drew me over her knees and tuned me. I blocked out Claire and Simon’s conversation while she did so, relishing the small bit of attention she focused on me. The strumming was the same–amazing. However, this time, she sang. Her voice was melodious. She was destined to be in the world of music. I thought. As she sang a song about love, wishes, and hope, I hummed along to the strums and chord changes. When she finished, Simon applauded, they exchanged a hug and a kiss, and we left. I noticed she had a smile that didn’t vanish or even fade by the time she unlocked her car door. She opened the case and prepared to set me inside it. She started to tune me again, even though I would be good for a few more songs.

                While she tuned me, I started to doubt if I had made the right decision. I didn’t know I would be a guitar again if I knocked out the witch, but all I could think about was Claire. If when all I could think about was Claire, then maybe my human subconscious wanted to be a guitar again.

                Before she put me away, her eyes sparkled. “Simon.” She whispered. “I’ll call you Simon.”

                It was in that moment that I knew I had made the right decision.

                I am happy.

                Now, so is Claire.

~

Submited this to a contest a few weeks ago. To avoid anything plagairism, I waited until I was sure they received this before I posted this. Likes, comments, and critiques very are very welcome!