They waited, every night, for their father to return home, with anticipation and trepidation; anticipating the possible bouts of kindness and affection he would on occasion show them, and simultaneously dreading the furious shouts and intense quarrels that happened more often than not. It was much like playing the lottery, like a game of cards. The cynic in Luka even went as far as to make a mental bet with himself every night, whether he would come home loving and benevolent, or intoxicated and cold-blooded. More often than not the latter won the bet.

It wasn’t always like this. He could distinctly remember when his father did not act this way; perhaps not his little sister, but it was etched in his memory so deep, for he yearned to return to those times. When his eyes fluttered open and caught the dim light passing through the portholes of the family ship every morning, it was a cursed reminder that he was still living in this reality.

He remembered quite clearly, the day when his father came home with a present in his hands; it was his sixth birthday, and the family was not very well-off, but his father walked through the door with a black, oddly shaped bag. He remembered his father greeting him happy birthday, a rarity today; he unzipped the black bag and sitting in the case sat the most amazing thing four year-old Luka Couffaine had lay his eyes on at that point in his life. An acoustic guitar, with a pale spruce top and cedar body, sturdy and magnificent.

Of course, it was a relatively cheap model – they could not possibly hope to afford anything that was of higher quality, but it was a guitar all the same, and it could produce music. And as he gazed upon the instrument, something peculiar resonated in him, and he knew instinctively what he wanted to do.

He got a small little book from the local bookstore, containing pages of chords and other guitar lessons. Day and night, his family had to put up with the incessant strumming of his guitar. His obsession was only fuelled by the vintage guitar records his father sometimes played, exposing him to another dimension of playing.

It was different a few years down the road. Very different. During the afternoon and evenings, he would be strumming away as loudly as he could, almost like an act of defiance, but as soon as he heard the footsteps on the gangplank, he’d stow away the instrument in its case and tuck it away under his bed, not daring to take it out till the next morning for his father did not appreciate the noise filling the ship. He would come down the stairs tipsy and stumbling, and Juleka would come to his room and he’d close the door, leaving a little crack ajar. He would watch as his father screamed and hollered at their mother and she’d cry and sob and shout back in protest, while he soothed Juleka by patting her head as she covered both ears with her hands. Sometimes his verbal abuse would be directed at them, calling them all sorts of things – ugly, useless, shameless, whatever derogatory adjective he could think of.

Was this love? His young mind didn’t quite think so. The few books he read depicted love as quite a beautiful thing, he thought, and his father’s beatings were anything but.

He’d approached his mother about the issue several times now, starting when he was eleven. He remembered asking, “Why is Daddy always shouting and beating?” to which his mother would look down at him and try to put on her kindest smile – he would later start to recognise the sorrow in her eyes – and tell him that everything was alright, that his father would get over it. He never did.

He never really grasped why his father acted this way, even now. When he first started his raging tirades, he overheard something about him getting “retrenched”, a word he didn’t find out the meaning of until much later. Even when he did when he was thirteen, he couldn’t quite understand. Why was he taking it out on them? It wasn’t their fault! – he angrily shouted in his head over and over again, like a chant. Many a time did he want to tell his father off, but he did not dare for fear of receiving a blow just like his mother did on many an occasion.

He wasn’t attending classes any longer. Most teenagers went to school, made friends, passed their exams, went on to college and found a job. Luka went to school and didn’t understand a single thing; neither his father, who was too busy getting drunk, nor his mother, who was busy taking up several jobs, could help him in any way. His grades spiralled further down, and his only refuge was the guitar.

The day he was expelled was the day he truly felt like he failed his parents; when the teacher told his mother how he’d been failing and was tardy and missed several classes, she wept and begged for a second chance, tried her best, but to no avail – “Sorry, mademoiselle, he has just has not been up to standards for far too long.” His father gave him a thrashing at home – how dare he waste their money fooling around and failing! He blamed the guitar; oh, such a fool was he to give his useless son the instrument, and promptly stormed into his room to find it. He tugged at his father’s sleeve, but he simply shoved his son aside. He reached underneath the bed and brought out the black bag, ripping out the guitar from its case. Dramatically raising it above his head, he hurled it to the ground, shattering it in a mess of wood splinters and steel parts. And in that moment something in him broke as well.

Luka didn’t emerge from his room for the following week, wallowing and steeping himself in sorrow and anger. His sister came into his room one day, and wordlessly hugged him, giving him a shoulder to cry on. That ended his stint of self-exile.

He never spoke to his father ever again.

He wasn’t quite sure what to do, then. Fifteen years old and expelled, no credentials, nothing. The only skill he had – playing the guitar – wasn’t particularly in high demand by employers. He joined his mother in her crusade of little part-time odd jobs, running errands, lending himself to be of use wherever he could find an opportunity. Many an employer were quite surprised and concerned by his age, but ultimately said nothing as they relished in the cheap labour he provided.

The cruelty and savagery of their father only encouraged the bonds between Anarka Couffaine and her children. It was only years later that Luka came to realise that the guilt she felt for letting them live with such a father was immeasurable. It was easy for others to say what she should do – divorce, take custody of the children and disappear. But it was much easier said than done – much harder to divorce someone you once loved dearly, whom you’d had two children with, with whom you’d swore your marriage vows. And the guilt she felt, for letting Luka deal with all his problems alone, was immense; she wished she had time to help him with school, with his life, but she had scarcely a minute of time to sit down and talk to him, let alone try to assist with his schoolwork. All this he’d only grasped later on; and he felt bouts of guilt himself for never noticing earlier.

He decided to get himself a more stable occupation; he applied to work at a barista at a café, and was accepted. Day and night he worked and worked, writing the names of customers on their cups, grinding the beans, sending out glass after glass of hot, strong coffee – but it never seemed to be enough. Whatever money he earned was a pittance, and the family was lucky if his father didn’t squander half of it for cigarettes and drink.

One day, months after he’d started his café job, his mother took him by the hand the moment he reached home and led him to his room; bewildered, he followed. And on his bed sat the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen since he was four – a black electric guitar, lying clean and pristine on the mattress, with an amplifier on the floor. He stared and gawked and his mouth fell open – they were already struggling, and still his mother went out of her way to do so much for him. What, just the guitar alone – easily a few hundred dollars – his mother must’ve saved up for quite some time now. A lump caught in his throat, followed by the tears that trickled down the side of his face. He threw himself into his mother’s embrace and cried – or more accurately, bawled, as the emotions coursed through his veins; a mixture of guilt, gratefulness and sorrow. She held him there for a long time, till her husband came home and they had to hide the new purchases under the bed.

When he’d woken up the following morning, Juleka lying by his side – as she always did when their parents started quarrelling at night, he decided to unearth his prize from underneath the bed, and took a good, long look at it. This was his mother’s sweat and blood – he wasn’t going to let it go to waste. He was going to be of use. He wasn’t going to let his mother suffer in silence.

There was one particular Sunday that marked a turning point in his life. It was one of his off-days, and he was relaxing at a friend’s house, in a dingy living room with the curtains shut and several six-packs of beer on the floor. This friend he had known from playing guitar at his stint at school, and he’d approached him because he shared a similar taste in music. They were sitting with a bunch of other guys who also had interests in such genres, songs blasting away at full volume on speakers. His friend was browsing through TV channels as he sat idly on the sofa.

Just then, one of his friends switched to a music channel. All eyes were glued to the TV as they watched a tall, lanky rock star, dressed from head to toe in leather, mop of purple hair thrashing around as he sang and shredded his guitar. His fingers flew across the strings with impossible speed and his voice was powerful and nothing short of stunning.

Luka stared at the screen intently. He nudged his friend and asked who the man was, eyes still fixated on the TV. His friend simply looked at him in disbelief and laughed, not believing he’d never heard of him before. After Luka pressed on, he was told quite simply, “That’s Jagged Stone, man!”

He gawked at the screen. He resonated within him, he thought. He wanted to be just like this Jagged Stone. He wanted to be free, live his life! Curse his father, damned be he. He wanted to be Jagged. He faced his friends excitedly – what if they had a band just like he did? He wanted to make music. He finally had some form of inspiration after months and years of meaningless existence. He raved on and on with the enthusiasm of a child, about how they could make music just like Jagged and do what they wanted.

Something quite undefinable was kindled within them, and it was decided there and then – a band would be formed. Leather jackets were bought. Hair was dyed. He wasn’t quite sure why he did it; perhaps it was a form of rebellion against his father. Luka returned home to the utter shock of her mother when he strutted down the stairs clad in leather, blue locks framing his face. His sister and mother were flabbergasted initially; however, they came to terms to it quickly just like he expected. No doubt they were silently partaking in his little form of protest.

His father was utterly incensed when he returned home; he threatened to beat, to throw him out. But Luka remained steadfast, and it shocked his father – he’d never gone against him before. That shock was replaced by a senseless rage as charged unto him and started to savagely hit him. It took his mother several minutes to pull him off and chase him away to his room where his drunken stupor would hopefully drive him to slumber. Luka sat on the floor, dazed and bloodied. But he wasn’t put down by his father. His body was beaten, but not his spirit.

Still for his mother’s sake, he was careful not to enrage his father any further. He didn’t face him at home, and he never practiced his guitar in his presence. There was a time or two where he’d been caught listening to Jagged and his father was provoked by the noise streaming from his room; he barged in, outraged and demanded he stop listening to such music. The threats spat from his mouth yet again – he threatened to kick him out and leave him to rot on the streets, he ranted about how useless his son was. Luka was lying if he claimed he wasn’t hurt at all by his words; still, he simply told himself this man was no longer his father. Oftentimes he wondered why he detested the guitar and Jagged Stone so terribly; perhaps it was how they reminded him of his old vintage records (though he wasn’t quite sure why he’d be angry, in that case) or how he blamed the guitar for leading his son “astray”.

His father’s alcoholic rages got worse over time. He staggered home one day and angrily swore incoherently – Luka guessed it was about him losing money at the casinos. He began shouting at his wife; then came slaps, punches and kicks. As Juleka cried and sniffled in Luka’s room – a bit too loudly – his father suddenly stopped. The two siblings froze. Then he turned and stormed towards them, shouting at them to stay silent, for it irked him. And he seized Juleka by the shoulder and slapped her.

Luka stared in disbelief. He slapped Juleka! His young daughter, his poor child. He wanted to rush up to his father and kill him there and then. But his father simply slammed the door shut and walked off, and Luka sank to his knees in despair. He didn’t want his mother and sister to suffer, did he? So why was he so incapable of doing anything? Was it cowardice? Did he somehow still love his father, even just a little? He wasn’t sure. He hugged Juleka and both of them cried for a long time.

He and his friends eventually got around to forming their band – Luka would play guitar, just like he’d always dreamed of. There was nothing else quite as enjoyable in his life currently, when they’d gather after his bandmates were done with school and they’d convene in one of their friend’s garages and start jamming away. They were rather good at it, too – all of them were talented in their own right, for a group of rag-tag sixteen and seventeen year olds. He felt free, liberated. Even if he still had to deal with his father’s drunken temper at home, he did what he wanted outside. He began spending more and more time in the garage, endlessly practicing, either with the band or by himself. On the days he came home late, he would stow his equipment away at the garage and come to retrieve them the following day, and enter the ship empty-handed. His father would shout and demand to know where he’d been, to which his mother quickly assured him that he was out working.

It was paradise outside and hell at home – it was little wonder he spent so much time with the band. But there was one day when he’d returned home earlier than usual and Juleka was at home alone. She asked him where he had been recently, and he decided to reveal to her that he was playing in a band, and his eyes dazzled with excitement as he spoke of the rock quintet he’d formed. But Juleka simply looked down at the floor and murmured, “I’m scared at home.”

The guilt crashed into him. He left Juleka at home alone to deal with his father’s wrath. There’d be no one to hold her, to console her. A lump formed in his throat yet again, and he held her in his arms. He promised he’d make something out of the band and make a decent living to support the family; if he couldn’t be there in person for Juleka or fend off his father, he’d be supporting them financially. She wordlessly nodded.

He began working harder than ever before. Day and night he practiced and scoured the newspapers for possible gig opportunities. He called up clubs, bars, event managers to see if he could score a slot. Most rejected him, but his spirit never wavered. It was less that the band wanted to play live and more that Luka needed to play live. He had to get money, one way or another, or it would be completely selfish for him to remain in the band.

Finally, one day, they’d managed to get a gig at a local club – yes, they assured the owner, they were willing to play through the night – and yes, of course, they were all eighteen and above. The band cheered in anticipation of their upcoming performance. But the drummer asked him if his father was fine with him playing at clubs. He lied through his teeth and told him he was. No doubt if his father found him playing the guitar at all he would be sent into a rage. But he wasn’t going to let his father stop him.

Luka found himself a few days later standing at the tip of a stage, guitar slung across his torso, the club’s patrons looking expectedly at them. His friend, Leo – the frontman – spoke into the microphone with a barely concealed nervousness, and Luka felt like his knees may have given way right then. But he stood steadfast, and he played on, and he laughed and smiled at the experience; he was playing live, absolutely brilliantly, like a real rockstar. Like Jagged Stone. It was exhilarating.

They ended their set to magnificent applause, and when they got off the stage the quintet was nothing but a cacophony of laughter and joy. But best of all, when the club owner stepped forward and presented them with a wad of euro bills as per the contract, he felt hope in his hands. He counted the money – one, two three… no less than thirty ten-euro notes in his palm. Of course it was going to have to be divided between the five of them, leaving him with sixty euros. But there was hope now. He could make money from this. He could help his mother, help Juleka. All was not lost.

He ran all the way back home – it was very late and he didn’t feel like waiting for the bus. He ran all the way to the docks, tiptoed over the gangplank and scooted down into the living quarters. He found his mother sitting at the dining table; his father, most likely fast asleep in his room. He excitedly approached his mother, who was quite surprised by his excitement. He brandished the sixty dollars from his pocket and pushed them into his mother’s hand. And at that moment, as mother and son clasped hands together, he felt a sense of achievement pounding in him. He was useful. He was helping his mother, and Juleka too. And he smiled a smile of unbridled joy.

The band continued to play as much as they could. The club owner was particularly satisfied with their performance, for the audience had rather enjoyed their playing and this gave the establishment a good number of repeat customers; he offered them more money, longer sets. Luka wholeheartedly accepted. He’d accept any request as long as the pay was good.

They started to feel like true rockstars, hedonistic and carefree. Luka didn’t partake much, but the rest of his bandmates became more and more involved with the rest of the club. They drank, they talked to the girls, and they flaunted whatever they could. The rock ‘n roll hubris was catching to them, he observed. But he didn’t mind. It was starkly different from the life at home, and he was content for the time being to continue living like this as long as he could provide for his mother and sister.

The drummer, Jules, was the most wanton of them all, it seemed. He’d talk up a different girl at the club every night, before and after their set. Within a few weeks he’d started seeing some girl from the club, a regular patron – Luka couldn’t remember her name. He recalled having a conversation once with Jules, when the two of them were drinking a beer in the darkness outside the club, after their set when the rest of the band had gone home. He talked endlessly about his girlfriend, ranting about love and describing her in endless detail. Luka wasn’t paying much attention; he’d never really cared about the concept of love for years now. He gulped down his beer idly. Jules, after finishing his rhetoric, prodded him in the ribs. “You should get yourself a girlfriend one day. They’ll be all over you. Lead guitar and all that.”

He merely chuckled and declined, to which Jules frowned and asked him if he believed in love. He stared at the silver beer can, fingers curled around the aluminium. His brow furrowed and he seemed lost in thought for a little moment. Then he sighed and stared up at the starry midnight sky.

“No, I don’t,” he replied after much consideration.

The routine continued for months. Luka would rise late in the morning and he’d roll out of bed, ensure his father wasn’t home and begin practicing the guitar. It was his life now, the six-stringed instrument. He’d welcome Juleka home in the afternoon, asked her how the day had gone at school and how everything was at home when he wasn’t around. She would always run up to him when he was practicing and listen intently and revel in the music. And at seven ‘o clock sharp, which he’d found to be the best time to leave for his father was never home at that time, he’d say his goodbyes to his mother and sister, sling his guitar and equipment over his back and rush off to the back of the club, where his bandmates waited. They’d play song after song – with some mingling around in the club, for his bandmates – and he’d exit the building late into the night, head back home without his father noticing, and hand his mother the money.

Sometimes, however, Juleka would admit to him that things weren’t quite exactly going well at home. His father’s temperament was getting worse, and the shouting never ceased. He belittled her, scolded her, stopping short of hitting her. He sat at home and smoked and drank, and Juleka mentioned how she’d just huddle at the corner of her room, not daring to come out. Luka had never felt so incredibly conflicted – he was supporting the family financially, and he was doing his best to keep the family afloat – quite literally. But still it felt like he wasn’t doing enough. His father would never change, he realised. And as long as his mother remained at a loss as to what do, and remained undecided on whether she should leave him, this chaos was never going to end. The worst part was that he didn’t know how exactly he could end it. Content? He berated himself. He couldn’t be content with his life. Not just yet. He couldn’t just simply provide an income – he needed to do more. But he didn’t know how.

The next conversation he had with Jules that he could remember involved him cursing and swearing and shouting at the night sky as the rest of the band stood by the banks of the Seine, leaning on the railings and drinking a beer. Leo slung one arm over Jules’ shoulder in sympathy. That no-good, disloyal girl had done him wrong, he wailed. Fancy her going around and being frisky with the other patrons in the club, when the band was playing no less! He ranted yet again about love, but this time about all its negative aspects, the side that Luka had always known. To the other bandmates, it was a fellow friend going through heartbreak; to Luka, it was a reaffirmation of what he’d always known.

The band never stopped performing. Night after night they busted out a slew of both covers and original songs, and the hours got longer and they played later and later into the night. The money piled higher and higher and the work got more lucrative. They’d racked up a good rapport with the club owner, who loved them for the business they brought to the club (and nothing else, Luka guessed). From three hundred it spiralled up and up, stopping at no less than twice that amount for a single night, sometimes even more – an absolutely ludicrous amount in Luka’s eyes.

But the money did not matter if things went on as they did, he thought. He prayed – if there was a God, he thought, let him free his sister and mother, for they deserved better, not trapped at home with a deranged abuser because he was too cowardly to retaliate.

One particular evening he hastily strapped his gear to his back, not at his usual seven ‘o clock departure hour but rather six-thirty. He bid his mother goodbye and bent down to kiss Juleka on her forehead. “Be strong,” he whispered to her. She nodded.

He dashed out of the ship, feeling the nervousness threatening to capsize his legs. The club was hosting an event and there was to be a larger crowd than usual, according to the owner. He was offering a thousand dollars straight up – but more importantly, there were to be big names in the music industry present. Record label owners, producers, other musicians, a plethora of contacts. If they put on a good show, they just might have had the opportunity to make it to the big leagues; and that was his ticket to liberate his family. There was much at stake here.

The band made their way on stage a few hours later, making their introduction and their presence felt as they started off with a series of hard-hitting guitar riffs. His fingers trembled, but he played on. He couldn’t afford to botch this opportunity. Leo sang at the top of his lungs, the voice reverberating throughout the club. The audience was feeling it, for he noticed they were mostly all on their feet and paying attention. Several songs later, he knew the band had it in the bag; they’d played absolutely perfectly so far and the crowd was cheering.

At that exact moment the high of the night was replaced by a churning sense of dread in his stomach. A man stepped into the bar, dressed rather sloppily and looking disgruntled. Luka’s eyes widened as he watched his father saunter over to the bar and order a few drinks. His wallet was surprisingly brimming with money – most likely earned from the high-stakes tables – and he conducted himself with a drunken glee as he made conversation with the bartender.

He turned and faced the band, and make eye contact with Luka. He swallowed. His fingers went numb and he could not feel his legs. Within a heartbeat his father was charging up the stage and shouting and cursing at Luka. His bandmates seized him and held him back, all whilst he hollered at him for deceiving him into thinking he was working. The club owner called the bouncers over, and promptly told his father to exit the premises immediately. His father turned to the owner and exploded, “Leave! Asking me to leave while taking advantage of my sixteen year-old son!”

Luka’s stomach lurched; less so because his father had so disgustingly made himself sound so loving and caring, but more so because he had just jeopardised his entire band’s stint at the club. The owner turned pale and he swallowed. “Get him out,” he muttered to the bouncers who dragged him out of the building.

He glared at the band. “Follow me,” he instructed, and led them backstage, not caring about the crowd who was greatly displeased. He berated them about lying about their age, that he could have potentially be sent to jail; he threw a wad of notes at the floor, their final payment, and told them it was the last time they played at any club in Paris ever again. And he left, shutting the door behind him, leaving the five of them in the dark.

There was a long silence. The four of them sent accusing stares his way. Finally Leo opened his mouth, tears and anger in his eyes. “You lied to us,” he spat through gritted teeth. “You told us he was okay with you playing with us.”

Luka could offer nothing in reply. He stared at the ground. “You lied!” Leo exclaimed with anguish. “Get out! Don’t ever come back.”

Leo grabbed him by the collar of his leather jacket and pushed him towards the exit. “Go!” he shouted.

Luka stood there in a daze, not knowing what to say. Finally, he muttered a few words of apology and stepped out the door, looking at his bandmates – now ex-bandmates – for the final time. And he shut the door and slumped to the ground. What had he done? He shouldn’t have kept it a secret from his father and gotten his mother to lie. They had a chance, and he completely sabotaged any opportunity they had. He buried his face in his hands and wept for several minutes, his heart empty and his throat choking. Finally, he stood up. There was only one place to return to, even if he dreaded the thought of it.

He stopped at the gangplank of the ship, trembling at the thought of facing his father again. Then he gingerly walked across. The lights were on – that couldn’t have been a good sign, not when it was so late at night. As he walked closer to the living quarters, he heard faint shouting and crying. His eyes widened and his heart raced. Mother and Juleka! He sprinted down the steps.

He came to face a depiction of chaos – his father grabbing his mother by her wrist and slapping her repeatedly, shouting and hollering while Juleka huddled in fright at the corner, bruises on her face. The dining table was overturned and the chairs were smashed. He turned to face Luka.

“All of you,” he sneered, “thinking you can keep this a secret?” He marched over to Luka, who took a step back, and seized him by the collar and delivered a punch to his face. He collapsed on the ground. “Fuck! Useless! Good-for-nothing!”

So this is how it ends, he thought. He smiled bitterly. He didn’t change anything. It would never end, no matter what he did. There was no point. But he turned to face his father, now directing his attention on his poor mother. He looked at his mother’s desperate, pleading eyes. He looked at Juleka’s welled up pupils, ready to burst into tears. Something in him broke again. He lamented in his mind, that he was so weak and so useless – no, he told himself that he couldn’t do anything over and over because he was scared, and he’d never tried! And that had to change, one way or another.

He spied the family picture on the ground, its glass frame cracked – it was the portrait they’d made several years ago, when they were happy. When exactly they were happy, Luka did not remember any longer. He rose to his feet, his father not noticing. His fingers curled around his guitar.

Do it, a voice throbbed in his mind.

His vision went red, overtaken by senseless rage, and he raised the guitar above his head just like his father did on that day.

Do it, the voice insisted. There was a faint roar in his ears.

His fingers gripped his guitar till they turned white, and he brought it down savagely on his father’s head with all the might that he could. He crumpled to the ground.

Luka sank to his knees and wordlessly stared at the wooden flooring. He hugged his mother, and Juleka joined the embrace. He’d finally done it. He finally gathered the courage to do what he always dreamt of doing. He’d freed his family from his father’s wicked, twisted love. Anarka broke down in her son’s arms, muttering over and over again, “I’m sorry,” while the two of them sniffled and cried like they were used to doing – but this time, there was a small hint of joy in their sobs.

His father never came back. He’d packed his bags and disappeared the following day, leaving no trace behind of the tormentor. His room was bare and his belongings were gone. Where his room once was stood a wallpaper of white. Good, Luka thought. He was gone for good. He could die in a country thousands of miles away and he wouldn’t care – but he wasn’t sure if his mother and sister felt the same. It must have been strange now, to have someone that was simultaneously your family and your abuser, simply disappear. His mother was solemn and withdrawn, his sister emotionless. He was confident time would heal their wounds, his included; but as of now they were still grieving, in a way. He’d gotten rid of their abuser, but also destroyed any semblance of hope they had that there was a shred of humanity left in their father. Was that a good thing? He didn’t know.

He didn’t know what to feel. Everything had went by so quickly – the band, his father, everything happened in a blink, and he didn’t exactly know how to react. He needed a break, to properly rest and clear his thoughts. He sat down on his bed and ran a hand through his blue-tipped hair, taking a deep breath. He lay down, staring at the ceiling, grey and dull. He gazed up for a very, very long time, such that he did not notice the sky turning orange as the sun began to set. He thought about his friends in the band, wondered what they would do in the future and his heart ached in guilt and pain. He pondered where his father would head to. He wondered what his mother and sister would do next. And finally, he sat up and brought out his guitar.

Luka ran a finger over its lacquered wooden body, a reminder of the pain he’d endured all these years; a symbol of suffering and misery, yet simultaneously a symbol of hope and refuge. His fingers trailed over the spot where he’d struck his father down, and his left hand unconsciously made their way up the fretboard and formed a chord. He raised his right hand and strummed; a bittersweet, melancholic note it was, the kind one played when they renounced love. Love – so cruel, so wicked. And he swore, right then, that he would never speak of love ever again.