Read by John Meagher
“You’re making me crazy,” Jonas said. “Can’t you play the fucking thing any quieter?”
I didn’t speak. I just kept playing the damn guitar while my cracked fingers bled rivulets that clung to the strings and dripped down the lacquered wood. Eventually I did say that I was sorry, that I couldn’t stop, but he’d already gone out for a smoke. He left the shed door cracked open, so the nicotine-laden winter air flooded in and froze my lungs.
Outside, Jonas’ phone trilled. He answered with a sharp, “Yeah?”
Rated R: For Fairies and F-Bombs!