Space Fiction


He was missing her more than his front teeth.

‘She couldn’t just disappear,’ he was swearing under his breath as he checked every room. There was the usual mess, and plenty of it, but as far as he could tell there was nothing missing. Except for her. He went to sleep hoping that it’s only a bad dream. ‘She’ll show up. She always does,’ he tried to comfort himself, but he was tossing and turning for hours. Eventually he fell into disturbing nightmares, where he saw her leaving and slamming the door behind her again and again.

‘Impossible,’ he woke up with a cold sweat. ‘I know I told her that she would be better off with a proper musician, not a wanna be like me, but… No, she wouldn’t leave. She wouldn’t leave me on her own. Ah. Someone’s stolen her from me.’ His mind was racing. Many envied him. She was such a pretty, little thing, with perfect curves. He jumped to his feet. ‘It’s Gerry. That freckled fecker. The way he looked at her.’ He grabbed the car keys so hard that they cut his skin. Couple of minutes later, leaving blood on the steering wheel and burnt rubber on a driveway, he arrived on the other side of the town. He banged on the door and after the sound of turning key, he pushed it hard into Gerry’s freckles.

‘Where is she?’ He roared and run through the apartment.

‘Who are you talking about, Jackson?’ said Gerry holding his nose.

‘You took her from me. Admit it. You wanted her from the first time you saw her!’

‘Man, whaa? Who?’
‘Your mother,’ he grabbed him by the shirt. ‘Don’t play stupid. My guitar. You took my guitar.’

‘Man, cool. You threw it out. Don’t you remember?’

It dawned on Jackson that something indeed had happened. Like through the fog he was getting more and more details of the horrible night. There had been a party, tequila shots and a bad performance, which resulted in him screaming something about the uselessness of the instrument and throwing it out the window. After the outburst, he came to his senses, run down, but the guitar was gone. He was looking all over the neighbourhood until he passed out in the middle of the roundabout.

‘Man, stop crying,’ Gerry was no longer bleeding and now felt sorry for his friend. ‘We’ll find it.’ They prepared a poster with a picture from a concert and the message:

Love of my life. Blue Fender in perfect condition, with few love marks. Big reward.
Contact Jackson.

They searched all day and all night, put posters at every bus stop, shop, and tree, asked countless strangers, called radio and newspapers. Nothing. Jackson checked his phone every 20 seconds. Nothing. At 5am, tripping over his shoes, he went back home. And there she was. Just by the front door, waiting for him. He took her in his arms, hugged, kissed and kissed some more.

‘I’m so sorry. I will never hurt you again,’ he cried. ‘I’ll treat you right.’

‘You better,’ said the guitar.

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