Broken Chords
A DEAD SILENCE has filled the room as Katrina Rica's fingers touch the standard tuned strings of her blue-grey acoustic guitar. The final key of G serenaded the blank looking three judges in her front, but even the old D-52 Martin which has given to her by her father won't convince them.
She jumps her eyes from the first judge to the middle lady and to the oldest of the panel. She dared not to talk but her heart wanted to jump out her already sweat breast.
"Let us talk for a sec" said the lady judge as they simultaneously turn around with their shovel chair and whisper words among them.
Thirst suddenly scratches Rica's dried out mouth, and seconds become suddenly minutes for her. Her wet left hand grip tightly to the guitar's neck, impatiently waiting for the decision for a long time.
Finally, heads turn again for her, and like an authority, the lady judge broke the news for her.
"You see, the melody is quite convincing and will fit in for the play", she started as both of her companions make little nods. "But it's the words that can't move us. They're kinda... weak".
A cold iced water poured into her soul. This has been the second time around her song is cut out.
"Can I sing another, I have another ---" and before she can even pluck a single chord she was cut.
"We're sorry."
It was pain. She really wanted to be a musician and her songs are getting old. Another setback. Another sorry.
She stands up and reaches for the backstage and put back inside the hard travelling case her guitar.
"It's OK darling, that Emily really hard on everyone" said a voice from her side referring to the lady judge. It's old Jane, the Janitress that keeps the city auditorium clean and immaculate.
Rica turns her head to her and pulled a forced smile. It's good thing that someone's appreciate at least.
"I heard the new theatre at the Helm Street needs somebody just like you".
Rica smiles for the last time and lifts her guitar to her right shoulder. She walks slowly and look at the stage for the last time where another "victim" of the circumstances have been criticized.
She reaches for the door and takes a deep breath in. She was bout to cry but was able to hold on to it. As she steps out of the building she forgots that the street is always busy with cars. She was lost inside her and her disappointment. She cannot comprehend about the weakness in her words and in her writing.
Until a wild force pulled the guitar case hard out from her right hand. She trips and falls into her knee and spun once. Her guitar was dragged by the Dumpster truck a meter mad half before it finally stops. The case was not strong enough to keep it inside as it rolls before her very eyes several times and hitting the graffiti wall of the sidewalk, mashed into pieces.
"Hey you! You wanna die or what " shouted by the angry driver as he drives away as if nothing happens.
She was then flushed back into the reality.
Her treasured Martin was destroyed. She runs toward to it and hold the destroyed neck and backboard. The string were able to hold but the body has cracked terribly. She cried bitterly as the passer by stop to look but never dated to help her. She looks at them, her blue eyes are clouded by so much tears.
Jane heard the commotion and ran beside her. She gets her up and help her get back inside the theatre building.
"You alright? " Jane asks.
"Yeah... thank you" she answered as she puts the glass of water to her mouth. Her hands are nervously trembling. She looks at her tormented guitar.
"Driver here's always damn crazy. At least you OK."
Another two roll of tears race to her white cheek.
"Music really isn't for me", Rica said in between sobs.
Jane can't do anything but to get near her and hug the poor teen.
That night, she can't help but stare at her guitar while browsing the internet. After a quick dinner and dodging questions from her mom, she desperately looks for luthier, a guitar maker. However, their little town of Blacksaddle doesn't have that repairman for Martins. One that catches her attention was a shop at the foot of Mt. Trece, an 18 mile drive.