Into the Light of a Dark, Black Night
A short angst ficlet about and from the perspective of a young Thomas Velseb (my OC), which came to me as I listened to Blackbird by The Beatles.
Fic is below the "Keep reading"
He should be in bed. Tom knew that was true as he instead sat on one of the old, yet comfortably cushioned, seats at the front porch of his home. Sat still in his pajamas. He should be in bed but he'd done nothing but lay awake in the darkness for at least an hour and there had been not an ounce progress in his search for rest.
The light next to the front door was dim. Illuminating the space in a soft and warm light and allowing Tom to see what he was doing.
Now he clutched a well-loved guitar to his chest, plucking a string or two periodically in accordance with what his memories pulled up. The instrument was slightly too big for him still, but it hadn't stopped him. Though, in the moment he wasn't playing per se, maybe he was reminiscing, or maybe he was comforting himself—the latter was hardly a "maybe", he knew he was—but on top of it all he was still trying to be quiet enough.
Even though Thomas knew the bedrooms were on the second floor of the farmhouse, he also knew that some of his siblings had just as much trouble as him, if not more, when it came to falling asleep. Making it harder for them, even if he doesn't mean to, is the last thing he wants to do right now; even as he's trying to take just a little bit of time to himself.
He stared out into the darkness beyond the porch light, which was hardly visible thanks to the moonlight coming down. He could feel it, staring back? Surely not. It's the livestock curious about the sudden light off in the distance. But, regardless, that feeling was almost comforting in the moment.
Blinking away tears—when had he begun to tear up?—he looked to the guitar in his arms again. He leaned over it, looking to the fret board as he counted in his mind to find the fret he needed, planting his left fingertips into a simple chord, a G. Gaze shifting back to his right hand held against the body of the instrument, he took a moment to recall the finger strumming pattern to go with the chord.
His hand grazed lightly over the strings, barely making contact to produce a sound audible to only him, he's sure. Then he took a minute to recall the next chord and adjust and do the same again. Then he did the same a few times more.
For as quiet as the chords were, they too brought a feeling of comfort, and with it came difficulty to prevent all the tears from flowing as they came rather quickly. Tom could feel the muscles in his face contorting into a frown as the need to keep himself from sobbing over took him. His sobbing would be louder than the guitar.
Tears spilled and produced soft tapping sounds as they landed against the body of the guitar. He stared at them as they produced an equally soft reflection from the nearby lighting.
His hand loosened from the instrument's neck section and it now shook along with the rest of Thomas. He adjusted himself, bringing both arms to now be around the the guitar's body, hugging it. He held it close. He wished it were somebody else playing it right now. Chest nearly heaving from the silent tears that wracked him, his fingers gripped the edges of it, looking as if he were holding onto the guitar for dear life.
He lost track of the time that passed as he sat there, waiting and trying to calm himself, clinging to an instrument that was not his own.
