It was an early Saturday morning and Carminea had woken around two hours earlier and was currently taking a walk around the grounds.
After waking, ‘Minea had tried to get back to sleep but it was no use, sleep did not arrive. Her first instinct had been to work out if anything that she dreamt meant anything; she didn’t, assuming that, as usual, nothing meant anything important. She grabbed a pair of skinny jeans and a band t-shirt from her wardrobe and slipped them on before retreating to the bathroom to brush her teeth and put on her make-up.
And that was how she found herself wandering aimlessly towards the lake, guitar in hand. Carminea took great comfort in the lake, she had always put it down to familiarity, and after all there was that river near by. As much as she loved to look at water, she could never bring herself to go closer than six feet away from it, that was what you got when you were terrified of water, especially ones with a strong current and this time, there was no Gérard around to fish her out.
Eventually, she found a decent spot for her to sit down and play “This will have to do,†she muttered in French, she never could be bothered to speak English when no-one was around. Laying her guitar on the ground, Minea looked up, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, she sighed and threw herself down next to the case, being careful not to hit her head, or another part of her body for that matter, on the hard plastic casing.
After a few moments of reflection, Carminea rolled over and undid the clasps that held the case shut; as they were opened they made a harsh clicking noise as they hit the plastic. For a few moments she stared at the acoustic that was sat inside the satin lining, a sixteenth birthday present from Violet and Gérard, those two had always been good with presents. The guitar was a Gibson, a beautiful thing, at least in Carminea’s opinion, made out of cedar wood, varnished so you could almost see your own reflection in the polished wood.
Carminea allowed herself to admire its appearance, for a little longer than was probably necessary, before lifting it out and placing it in her lap. She threw the strap over her shoulder and pulled the plectrum out of the holder that was fixed onto the back of the headstock. As she ran through a few scales she heard something from near by, she looked up “Who’s there?†she asked in French before shaking her head and shouting again “Who’s there?†only this time she spoke in English, her French accent heavy on her words.
After waking, ‘Minea had tried to get back to sleep but it was no use, sleep did not arrive. Her first instinct had been to work out if anything that she dreamt meant anything; she didn’t, assuming that, as usual, nothing meant anything important. She grabbed a pair of skinny jeans and a band t-shirt from her wardrobe and slipped them on before retreating to the bathroom to brush her teeth and put on her make-up.
And that was how she found herself wandering aimlessly towards the lake, guitar in hand. Carminea took great comfort in the lake, she had always put it down to familiarity, and after all there was that river near by. As much as she loved to look at water, she could never bring herself to go closer than six feet away from it, that was what you got when you were terrified of water, especially ones with a strong current and this time, there was no Gérard around to fish her out.
Eventually, she found a decent spot for her to sit down and play “This will have to do,†she muttered in French, she never could be bothered to speak English when no-one was around. Laying her guitar on the ground, Minea looked up, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, she sighed and threw herself down next to the case, being careful not to hit her head, or another part of her body for that matter, on the hard plastic casing.
After a few moments of reflection, Carminea rolled over and undid the clasps that held the case shut; as they were opened they made a harsh clicking noise as they hit the plastic. For a few moments she stared at the acoustic that was sat inside the satin lining, a sixteenth birthday present from Violet and Gérard, those two had always been good with presents. The guitar was a Gibson, a beautiful thing, at least in Carminea’s opinion, made out of cedar wood, varnished so you could almost see your own reflection in the polished wood.
Carminea allowed herself to admire its appearance, for a little longer than was probably necessary, before lifting it out and placing it in her lap. She threw the strap over her shoulder and pulled the plectrum out of the holder that was fixed onto the back of the headstock. As she ran through a few scales she heard something from near by, she looked up “Who’s there?†she asked in French before shaking her head and shouting again “Who’s there?†only this time she spoke in English, her French accent heavy on her words.