Somewhere South of Heaven

Smoke hung thickly in the air, lending a surreal quality, which was both comforting and protective, to the night. Whatever happened here this night wasn’t real… wasn’t him… it didn’t belong to the life he had carved for himself here in this foreign land—a land that, strangely, felt more like home of late than did his own native soil. The respect, admiration and, dare he say, affection he had earned in his tenure here remained unthreatened; his anonymity preserved by the dim lighting, beer fumes and stale, stagnant air of the seedy little club.

With his newly-realised cloak of obscurity bolstering his confidence he stepped forward, taking his place on the rickety stool. He squinted slightly in compensation for the ever-present glasses his ego had declined tonight; their absence was a dual-edged sword as he glanced surreptitiously around him. The expected blurriness combined with the smoke that saturated the room, furthering the illusion of remoteness and creating a safe barrier between himself and the room’s less than hospitable patrons, while at the same time the vulnerability that came with the lack of vision—of control—dredged up early memories, long buried and forgotten. Memories of a small boy, teased and tormented in the playground for his clumsiness, disadvantaged by his lack of size as the larger lads descended on him like a pack of hungry vultures.

With a frustrated shake of his head he shrugged off the horror of childhood traumas long since outgrown and applied himself to the here and now. One hand idly caressed the smooth, silken body of the instrument as he automatically checked strings and tension, a task he’d performed countless times over the years and the simple, familiar routine drove away the last vestiges of nervousness as he gave himself over to the joy and freedom of the music.

As his set came to an end, the last chords resonating in the air around him, he lifted his head. Gazing once more around the smoke-filled room, his eyes came to rest on the lone figure in the back corner. His heart leapt as the figure came into focus with unprecedented clarity despite the weariness of overstrained eyes and the murky gloom that separated them. Brown eyes gleamed proudly and a gentle, supportive smile curved soft, lush lips. With a slight incline of his head the listener signalled his approval of a job well done. The too-familiar face with its sharp cheekbones and fine, almost beautiful features was unmarred by the ravages of time; it displayed none of the lines that mapped its journey through this life—lines that he knew now marked the once-beloved face. Giles blinked, clearing his vision. As the phantom dissolved he sighed and made his way down from the tiny stage. A deep sense of sorrow engulfed him for a moment, before his lips twisted fractionally into a poignant smile as a voice echoed in his head. ‘Good show, old man.’

“Thank you, Ethan,” he whispered to the ether.