A Sister’s Fury
**MY SISTER SWORE SHE’D KILL HIM IF HE EVER TOUCHED HIS GUITAR AGAIN**
I remember the metallic tang of blood in the air after his accident, even before I saw him lying there. That stupid red motorcycle.
She adored that guitar, polished it every day; Dad bought it for her 16th. “Don’t you ever let anyone near this, Lily-bug,” he’d said, his voice raspy from cigarettes and love. And she *didn’t.* Not until after. Until she changed.
Now it’s gone. I swear, this morning it was right there in the corner of her room where she always kept it. But now the spot is bare, and she won’t answer her phone. I can still see the sunlight glinting off the frets.
I’m at his apartment now, banging on the door. All I can smell is stale beer and cheap cologne. If he’s done something with it…if he’s sold it or traded it…
👇 Full story continued in the comments…
The door finally creaks open, and there he is. Mark. His face is pale, eyes bloodshot, but there’s a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. He’s wearing a t-shirt that says, “Born to Ride,” which feels like a personal affront.
“Well, well,” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe. “Look who it is. Come to see if I’m still kicking?”
“Where is it, Mark?” I demand, my voice cracking.
He feigns confusion. “Where’s what, sweetheart? Did you lose something?”
“The guitar,” I say, my voice rising. “Lily’s guitar.”
He laughs, a hollow, grating sound. “Ah, the axe. That thing? Last I saw it, it was in her hands. Maybe you should ask her.”
I shove past him, ignoring the wave of nausea that washes over me. The apartment is a mess. Dirty clothes litter the floor, empty beer bottles are everywhere. I search frantically, opening closets, peering under the bed, the image of the guitar, pristine and gleaming, fueling my desperation.
He follows me, watching with a cruel amusement. “You know, she was… different, after the accident. More… intense.” He chuckles. “Almost as if she had… plans.”
I whirl on him, my fists clenched. “Don’t you *dare* talk about her like that.”
He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying. Maybe she wanted to give it back. Maybe she sold it. Maybe…” he pauses, his smirk faltering, “…maybe she’s gone to him.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken dread. I freeze. Gone to him?
Suddenly, a flash of movement from the hallway behind him catches my eye. A shadow, a flicker of something red. My heart leaps into my throat.
I push past Mark and sprint down the hallway. It’s a small, cramped space leading to a bedroom. The door is slightly ajar. I push it open, my breath catching.
The room is dim, illuminated only by the weak light filtering through the blinds. And there, on the bed, is Lily. She’s sitting, cradling… a battered old guitar. It’s not the polished mahogany I remember, but a cheap, worn-out acoustic. Her hair is a mess, her eyes are red, but she’s… smiling.
“I knew you’d come,” she whispers, her voice hoarse.
“Lily…” I rush to her side, relief flooding through me.
“He didn’t touch it,” she says, her voice stronger now. She gestures at the worn-out guitar. “He didn’t deserve it. So I traded it. For this. A new start.”
Then she smiles, a genuine, hopeful smile, and I realize what she’s done. She swapped her beautiful guitar for the one that would let her take the steps necessary to leave, and Mark. She’s finally free.