Wartime Musician

The air is filled with something that can’t quite be placed, it isn’t silence nor is it noise, it is like tragic despair, mimicking the emotions of the people surviving in the city.

To fill this void with music is all he wants. To give the people a simple glimmer of hope.

He wanders the streets, guitar in hand, looking for anywhere to play. Strumming on the corner under the streetlamp is usually his destination when everywhere else fails. But he understands he’s not the only one looking for work, he’s not the only one starving, he’s not the only one who’s desperate, he’s not the only one hoping tomorrow will be different.

As he sits under the now familiar streetlamp and begins to play the chords that flood his memory, people begin to gather. Like the bugs to the lamplight, they surround the sound that breaks the not quite silence, giving them a moments escape from reality.

As he plays, people set down anything they can, spare change, a chunk of bread, to thank him for the peace. The crowd around him is ever-changing but never diminishing. Old, young, wealthy, poor, men, women, all experiencing the same emotions in the same conditions, brought together by the music he makes. This is all he wants. To unify people with his music, to bring anyone hope and joy. In times of darkness, to be a spark of light to just one person would make him feel accomplished.

They are soon brought back to reality when they hear a cry and muffled pop in the distance. A deafening reminder of what is happening. A war surrounds them.

Everyone hurries back to their homes before those noises come any closer.

After the people have left, he stands up and wanders from the streetlamp toward the nearby buildings. Most are stores and bakeries of all kinds, but one is different, one opens after the rest have closed, one is for the people who are awake after everyone else has gone to sleep – the local bar and dance hall. He has endless hopes of playing there, finding stability for his music, but all his attempts have been in vain. Yet every night he goes there in anticipation that this is the time things will be different.

Tonight they were.

As he enters the hall, he realizes something isn't the same, there is no music playing. As he gets to the main space, he notices people are looking around as if someone is missing. He goes up to the man who owns the place to ask about the atmosphere. The singer hasn't arrived yet. A woman always an hour early to prepare herself for the audience. She has never missed a day or been late, but today was different.

To change the mood, the owner gives the musician the go-ahead to borrow the stage. He wanted to be happy in this moment, but he was filled with a bittersweet emotion. His gain was at the expense of another. Her unfamiliar behavior led to his gain. He could not shake this feeling.

As he got onto the stage, he started with a song a bit more somber to match the crowd and eased into more upbeat songs as the night went on. At no point did he take his eyes off the door, hoping she would walk through them at any second and apologize for her absence. But that moment never came.

As the night ended, he was paid for his performance, more than he has seen in a long time. Again, a moment he should feel happy but there is a turning in the pit of his stomach thinking about the woman.

As morning came his thoughts were still filled with worry. He took his guitar and wandered the streets as he always did, not breaking from routine in an attempt to empty his head.

As he paced the roads he heard mumblings of gossip that he couldn't ignore.

They whispered about the events of the night before.

The muffled pop in the distance that has become a much too familiar sound.

His wanderings bring him to a wall, a once empty wall now covered in flowers surrounding a picture.

It was her; the singer he watched for all night, the singer who always had a place at the dance hall, the victim of the muffled pop in the distance.

He was immediately overwhelmed with heartache. War claims innocent lives, but he never thought it could be her. She was vibrant and caring, always with a smile. She never let it be shown that she was in the same environment as everyone else, she maintained a serenity he envied.

Every night as she walked to the hall, she stopped at a familiar streetlamp to listen to a musician trying to survive, giving him everything she had in her pockets before moving along to her place. As if they existed in parallel universes, meant to be near but never to touch. She watched him and he watched for her. But the night she didn't come was a night she couldn't.

He went to the hall and everything was confirmed. The tragedy of their reality.

The owner said they wouldn't be open for a few days but if he could come back when they do, the people would like to hear him again.

After a few nights of mourning passed, he took to the unfamiliar stage again.

He opened with a song no one recognized. A song he wrote. A duet for the singer. His real dream. To play the song he wrote for her, with her. A dream that could no longer survive. A dream that died with her.

As he played in her memory, the bittersweet feeling never left. He once again stared at the door, praying that everything had been a nightmare and she would walk in.

As the year passed, the evenings all looked the same. He took to the stage as he watched the door waiting for her.

He gained his stability but longed for his streetlamp.