Wasted Heart by Nicole Reed

working on. It’s a dark, heavy beat, but man does it have a mean guitar melody that I think would be perfect for you,” he says, pressing buttons on the sound board.
    Music starts to thump through the room. My eyes close on their own accord, and I let the rhythm take over. For the first time in a long while, I feel it flow through me, energizing and renewing. My heart beats in synchrony, my fingers search out the matching chords, playing an air-guitar as precise as I would play my own.
    Without letting it end, Mel loops the song, and it continues to play. The third time I listen to it, I open my eyes to look down at the lyrics Mel wrote. I begin to sing, but I don’t use his exact written words. I add in my own, letting them come straight from me. “Without remorse, without shame, I’m the only one to blame. Take my heart, Take my soul, but know they come empty, riddled with holes.”
    I get lost in the music, escape in the melody, and purge myself within the lyrics. Something tugs inside of my abdomen, reminding me it’s still there. My soul. It merges with the music, the only time it’s free from the encasing darkness. The only time I’ve ever felt whole is in my music. I thought it was lost for good. Sitting in this room, I find it again, feeling a little peace for the first time in two years.
    When the music comes to an end, Mel starts to clap enthusiastically while whistling, and I remember I’m not alone. I come back to myself only to find several others’ applause joining his. Turning to the doorway, I see that Ryan, Julie, and Smiley herself have witnessed this intangible moment, and I hate it.
    For seconds, the fiery anger inside me threatens to be unleashed. Goddamn them all for seeing something so personal and so private that it physically makes me ache inside to be flayed open; however, I instantly realize they have no clue that my spirit has been severed from my music and only now rediscovering it. They can’t comprehend what they’ve witnessed, and I have no desire to share it. I look down, trying to control all of these feelings so they don’t escape.
    “Man. Son, that’s not half bad,” Ryan says, standing somewhere near me.
    “Not half bad?” that chick Julie asks with her accent. “That was bloody amazing. I’d buy that iTunes single right this second.”
    “Damn, that was bad ass,” Mel says, joining in with the others.
    Once I’ve masked all my emotions, I look up to glare at them and shrug. I can’t help that my eyes immediately seek Syn’s. Are those unshed tears? She stands with her hands grasped at her chest, her breathing rapid. We stare at each other while the others talk over us. She knows what just happened with me. How can she possibly know? Goddamn it! How can she know?

He found it.
    No wonder he hasn’t been playing. He couldn’t feel the music. It’s a musician’s lifeblood. If you can’t connect with the music, it’s all a lie, and the fans can spot that a mile away. And that’s not the truly painful part. If you are a musician, you live and die for your music. It connects you to life, to people, and for some, yourself. It’s like a chef not being able to taste food. You can cook it, slave over it for hours, but no matter how delicious it looks, it’s tasteless. For a musician, it’s losing yourself. Your soul. And for a precious second, I watched him find his.
    Ten minutes ago, Julie and I were working on my music when Ryan popped his head into the doorway and told us to come with him. We looked at each other, perplexed at what he wanted, but stood to follow him. He led us to the room next door, and from the doorway, we watched, not wanting to interrupt Rhye. Oh my, the raspiness in his voice, soft and smooth with a thick texture. There is a husky quality that all great rock singers have, something that calls to its listeners, and Rhye has it in spades. I watched him, with his eyes closed, as he swayed his body to the rhythm, a seemingly innate ability to