Vacation of Your Nightmares

By ChiNoMizuumi and Tachigami

Though this island of the Caribbean had originally been uninhabited, being rather young and, for a long time, forgotten by modern-day society, Martin walked along its white-sand beach without having arrived any way other than by plane. Within the previous ten years, construction had begun on the island, forming luxury hotels, strings of shops, restaurants, vacation homes and permanent residences. And to promote the new link in the chain of islands, several countries presented a lottery-based giveaway of ten month-long vacations, free of charge, to the island, decidedly called Guadaupe, as it was situated a few hundred miles off Guadeloupe.

Only the previous day Martin Harrison had landed. Having returned to Italy from California just several weeks prior, he'd been jetlagged and tired. He'd stopped at a gas station on his way home, and on a whim, as was with everyone with no serious gambling problem, he bought a generic lottery ticket. When he discovered that he'd won a once-in-a-lifetime trip, for free, he almost brushed it off as either a hallucination from lack of sleep or a dream in general. As he would have given it to someone else, his family had convinced him to take it. So he did.

Several days afterward, Martin had landed, gotten his room at the hotel, and had, instead of walking the streets to investigate more, gone to the beach. It looked much like the beaches in California, about the same view as the flat's windows offered while he stayed there, on a job. It looked rather similar to Italy's beaches as well. Most beaches did resemble one another, from black sand, white sand, or generic pale tan sand. Still, it was much quieter. Most of those who already lived on the island were business employees and owners, and many of the lottery winners. Martin most definitely didn't miss the crowds of Italy and California. It was quiet since the island's mainland was still under massive development, and for the entire month, only around several hundred people would populate the island half the size of Guadeloupe.

Now, however, only about a hundred people, not including workers, were around. As Martin made his way down the beach along the south end of the island, he would pass a couple or group that had met after touchdown. The thought that people could so quickly become friends was rather off to the thirty-year-old international private investigator. Friendship had never come too easily to him, and when it had, the friendships had ended quickly and with a great amount of hostility on both ends. Martin paused under an especially short banana tree near a grassy shade area and sat. There was no one in the water. No boats. No rafts. Nothing more than a leaping dolphin here and there, or a seagull...

Martin shuddered at the concept of a seagull. Of course they were prominent around the sea, but they were horrible creatures. Then again, he thought all birds were horrible creatures. He didn't quite know why he hated them so much, however, all he knew, and wanted to know, was that he hated them and did well to avoid them and their leftovers. With a low sigh Martin pulled up the loose sleeves of his plain beige buttondown shirt and leaned against the trunk of the tree. It was nice to be among a very small group of people, at least. It wouldn't be this way in a year's time, however, he had to remind himself. If he wanted isolation, he'd have to go to Siberia, or at least Alaska. But he hated the cold.

Oh, well, Martin's thoughts muttered. Working with people wore him thin, but it paid well, especially being one of the few PIs to actually travel abroad. Maybe he could buy a tiny island in the next decade... He closed his eyes, considering the probability of a bird attack within the next fifteen minutes.

The sand beneath Skylar's feet, though scalding hot, warmed his entire body as he made his way down the island's beach for the first time. He marveled at the white sand, its individual granules glittering as the sun beat down upon the land, and then marveled at the island itself. According to his sources, the island had been uninhabited for who knows how long. It was only recently that people gained interest in this forgotten region of the Caribbean. Guadaupe, it was being called. It was difficult for Skylar to understand why such a breathtaking land had not been claimed as a territory by some country prior to then. But, he was in no position to begin questioning anything. He was a lucky lottery winner, after all. The only thing he could do now was enjoy this unexpected paradise.

A few days ago, before he even arrived on the island, Skylar had been given a lottery ticket by a fellow band member after a gig in Stockholm, Sweden. The myth floating around Sweden's music scene was that one would be blessed with good luck if, and only if, his or her band manages to fill all of the seats in the concert. By some magic, this occurred, so, to test out the "blessed luck," Skylar received a lottery ticket. After scratching off the allowed spaces, the red-haired guitarist scrambled back to his group, flailing his arms before tackling his bassist. That luck had paid off - he had won a free vacation to some Caribbean island. With no hesitance, the boy's friends encouraged him to take it, and so he did.

It was only a few hours ago that Skylar had landed in the Guadaupe airport. Immediately, he dropped off everything he had in his hotel room, only leaving his guitar strapped to his back. Though the streets of the city were just as beautiful as he imagined, the young guitarist felt more at peace on the beach. It seemed like there were very few people there; not a single soul was swimming in the water. The quietness of the island, though a stark difference from Stockholm, was extremely calming. It was as if every muscle in Skylar's body had eased away from the tension that plagued him so. There was no question about it: he didn't miss the mobs of people in Stockholm. The bustle of Sweden was like the madness of New York City compared to Guadaupe.

Skylar barely noticed how far he had walked down the beach. He was coming up to the point where there was barely anyone left. In the distance, he could make out a light-haired person sitting against a tree. In the other direction, he could spot another person who seemed to be staring out at the water.

Peaceful… and perfect, he thought with a tiny grin.

Falling down onto the sand, Skylar crossed his legs and drew forth the guitar that he so dearly loved, beginning to strum a light tune to match the atmosphere of the island. His fingers swept over the strings whilst his eyes were closed, that smile still prevalent on his face. This is the life...

By the incessant ticking of his watch, that despite the rushing of the waves just before him, ticked unnecessarily loudly, Martin could deduce that about ten minutes had passed. More or less, since his mind had been allowed to wander quite a bit. While his instincts didn't want him to let his guard down, the area was so utterly quiet, barren of offensive human noises, that it was very easy. Until the light sound of a guitar drifted down toward him. Opening his eyes, Martin glanced down that way and spied... someone. A man, possibly. A young one? And was that red hair? Or orange? It didn't look like a fake color... Martin shook his head and looked away with an annoyed growl at himself. At over fifty yards away he was trying to figure out a complete stranger, who was probably a part of a band by the way he held the guitar---

Martin stood quickly and started stalking down what was left of the beach before it ended in some lush area filled with heavy trees and the sweet scent of flowers. Only several steps down he came across a series of seagulls littered about a pile of fallen palm fronds. Whatever was in there didn't seem to be of much interest once Martin was seen, and the disgusting creatures called at him as if they were hunters suddenly stumbling upon a herd of bison.

He cried out in his usual sudden-bird-discovery scream, stumbling back and nearly falling as he cursed in Italian rather venomously. They scattered as he kicked up sand before turning and running several yards, letting his feet hit the lapping waves before stopping and scowling at himself, then going the other way. Martin would have to investigate the flowers later...

It would be rather uncomfortable, having to walk about with pants saturated with salt water, but it wouldn't be a terribly long while before he went back to the hotel. Besides, he'd been in many, many more difficult situations during which soggy clothes were the least of his problems. He stared at the horizon as his mind wandered a bit. It went back to a particular situation in 1998, near the start of his career, when he'd been locked in a sewer that was rapidly filling with water. He'd done well in angling his body toward a particularly large pipe, which had deposited him in the desert near Las Vegas.

The light music of a guitar brought him back to reality. It was the red-headed kid, whom Martin was passing at that moment. He cast a carefully concealed glance his way, but couldn't gather much from that quick glance. It was too bright a morning, anyway. As his heart began calming from his original scare, he started up the beach and back toward the hotel. That was more than enough action for one day off, he assured himself.

It took only a few minutes to get back to the hotel. It was right across the street from the largest beach on the island, and from his suite on the thirtieth floor, the view was definitely something that could be framed. In fact, from the living room, it was framed indeed, by heavy beige drapes that, when wanted, shut out every ray of sunlight of the day. The black leather furniture and marble floors swept into a large kitchen equipped with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances (something Martin wasn't a fan of, but seemed to be massively popular). The wide hallway, lined with photographs of other beaches from around the world, gave way to two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a linen closet. A television was housed in the living room and larger bedroom, each on an identical entertainment system which hid a DVD player and wi-fi router. Every room of the hotel, so he'd heard, was just like this. Not catering to specific likes and dislikes to avoid annoyances with both employees and guests, it went with calm, plain colors. Martin liked it quite a bit, really...

Plucking at the strings gently, Skylar had not a single care in the world anymore. The waves, though gentle and soft, cascaded around the shoreline in a steady rhythm. It was almost as though nature desired to be his metronome. The red-head gladly played along with the rhythm of the ocean, bobbing his head up and down ever so slightly.

The music he played - no, the music he created out of thin air - was simple, yet it carried a refined and elegant tone. Though produced by nothing but an electric guitar disconnected from its amp, it managed to float on the air in an ethereal manner. For Skylar, this was what defined good music.

His fingers continued to strum a Carribean-inspired beat until a loud screech resounded in the distance. The sound was very loud, and slightly girlish, which made the boy let out a hearty laugh. With a quick segue, a slightly flick of his wrists, Skylar began to strum a silly, circus-like theme in tribute to the poor man who must have met his match with the seagulls of the island. Whoever this man was, he probably was not an adventurer.

After a short while, Skylar's fingers stopped producing the ludicrous tune, It was high time for his to make the trek back to his hotel room. He never got a good look at the room he was staying it. According to the brochures, the rooms were state-of-the-art.

With a groan, the red-head kicked his legs out, sending grains of sand flying in front of him. It was too bad that he had to leave the beach; the weather was absolutely perfect, and the sky was clear. Nevertheless, he stood up and packed up his gear, starting the hike back to the hotel. It only took a few minutes, but the boy's legs were already worn out.

Skylar's room was absolutely perfect. Located on the 30th floor, it was a one-bedroom suite that had a moderately-sized living space, a roomy kitchen, and a bathroom connected to the bedroom. A flat-screen television hung on the wall of the living room, with a large sofa immediately opposite. There was an identical TV in the bedroom, also equipped with an entertainment unit. The kitchen was absolutely perfect in every sense of the word. Back in his hometown, Skylar had a very shoddy apartment room. He had little money, which meant that he had to go on without luxuries such as stainless steel appliances.

Skipping out onto the balcony, the red-head reveled in the sudden gust of wind. Settling on the floor once again, he drew out his trust guitar and began to bring peace to the people in the building once more.

((Yay, reply time!))

For a while, Martin laid on the soft bed in his room. This was supposed to be a time for his mind to settle down! A time where birds didn’t peck fear into his heart and make him scream like a five year old girl. A time that didn’t involve his over-analyzing everything he saw, and just enjoy the simplicity of the island and its silence before it was flooded with trinket shops, gawking tourists, and lazy rich kids on spring break tossing their parents’ trust fund money all over the place. The beauty of the island was so far unbroken, but unfortunately, that was not to remain. He sighed, sitting up and grabbing the pants that had been dusted with sand and soaked with water, tossing them into the woven hamper near the door before heading down the hallway.

He left the living room for the door to the balcony. Each room on every floor had a balcony just like its neighbor, containing a couple chairs and a table, and an umbrella situated in the middle of it. The stone floor was covered a bit by a tan rug, mostly underneath the table and its chairs. Sliding the glass door open, Martin stepped out into the heat again and immediately heard the familiar sound of a guitar. Right beside him. Each balcony was separated by a foot and a half of space, and their own railings. The red-haired kid from the beach was on the floor, playing. At least the music was nice enough, nothing irritating or fast-paced. Calming. Settling himself in one of the chairs, Martin wished he’d had his keyboard. He couldn’t play the guitar, but with a piano, he could imitate whatever he heard, and make his own melodies up in moments flat. Though he couldn’t read sheet music, he didn’t need it. Trial and error worked just as well in his musical ability and his line of work.

He didn’t bother speaking; over time he’d learned that if anyone wanted to speak to him, they would without his prompting. Staring at the sky, he was a bit surprised at how it had began to darken with early evening. It was a bit surprising how quickly the day had passed. Studying where the sky met the sea, Martin almost didn’t see the seagull land on the railing just feet away. Gasping, he almost flew back and fell, but caught himself, flailing at it wordlessly. It looked away as if trying to ignore Martin’s movements, until he stood and yelled at it. Shocked, it flapped away. “Damn bird! I’ll kill you!” Martin shook his fist at it as the feathered rat departed. Sitting again, Martin put a hand to his head and huffed. Why did they always find him? It was like they... knew he was afraid of birds. But that was stupid. When one feared something, it seemed to always be near. Martin knew that well.

His fingers, though calloused over time, pressed down the strings with a gentleness that only a professional musician could manage. Most guitarists would haphazardly slap the strings, producing only a messy jumble of coarse notes. If you knew what you were doing, you could really create music. Sure, Skylar was a rock-and-roll guitarist, and he definitely could make a very grungy sound with his guitar, but it was still clean. It had both rhyme and reason. It was art.

Skylar was completely focused on his music that he never heard the balcony door adjacent to his own slide open. The only thing that alerted him to the presence of someone else was the sudden sound of screaming. In fact, it made the poor boy jump nearly out of his skin. He fumbled with his guitar, accidentally tossing the pick to the side and hitting his head on the windowsill as he attempted to stand up. “Tch…” he hissed in pain, running a hand through his hair. What a way to get his attention.

After rubbing his head a bit, Skylar turned to look at the dolt who had decided that screaming at birds would do him any good. He held a certain enmity towards the foul creatures himself after being attacked by a flock of them as a small child. He always had an urge to shoo the things away, but sometimes always hindered him. Perhaps it was their chirping; to Skylar, what other people took as noise he took as melody.

“Oi, friend, shooing them will only make more come. Mother Nature dislikes it when we interfere with her orchestral leading,” he remarked, a tiny chuckle following soon after, floating in the air like a feather. Skylar paused for a moment, leaning back against the wall as he eyed his neighbor. It didn’t take long for him to start speaking again, though his languages had started to fail him.. “Ah… How is it said in English… ‘Those little nimble musicians of the air, that warble forth their curious ditties, with which nature hath furnished them to the shame of art.’”

Martin brought his head back out of his hand and glanced sideways. Oh, no. Did he have to be so near someone like this? That just gained insight from Ornithophobia or some other fear. And quotes were all well and good, but Martin wasn’t in the mood for it. “Okay, thanks. I think I’ll just go in and plan my genocide of birds for a later date.” He shuddered, standing and glaring at the sky. Then he went inside, and to one of his bags and flung it open. While he loved the piano, the violin and cello were just as well to him. And it was easier to transport a violin. Not necessarily a cello. Pulling it out of its bag, he didn’t go through the rigamarole of tightening the strings, testing it, inspecting the bow. He’d already done that on the plane. Sitting on the bed, he placed his chin on the rest and brought up the bow. It was gold-tipped. He saved up for quite a while to be able to afford it, but that was before he could be called a damn good private investigator.

He thought for a while, testing the bow and the strings, pressing them, releasing them, trying the style, a new one, but found it awkward and went back. Then he tested the tone. It seemed fine. No, it was. He drew the bow down the strings, pressing, releasing, sawing lightly. He’d had a few lessons as a child, his musically-inclined parents had wanted him to learn what they’d learned. But he hated classes. Standing there, unable to hear what music you were putting out because of everyone else around trying to imitate the same damn thing. It was ridiculous! He’d refused to go back after a few sessions, and they’d tried a private tutor. Martin, however, simply despised learning from another. As was with everything, he’d locked himself in the basement late into the night on weekends and breaks from school, and taught himself in various ways. It was hard to get his small fingers to each string in the right manner, but as he grew and his fingers lengthened, he found it much easier.

Unfortunately, as with piano, he had no idea how to read a violin or cello’s sheet music. The same went with any type of music, really. But he liked trial and error. Error, at this point, was relatively nonexistent since he’d played this particular piece, something he’d come up with several years ago, almost every other day. It was light and airy, a bit sorrowful, something he couldn’t place, but he’d borrowed a few tones and pauses from some Mozart pieces. He didn’t think the old guy would mind. Martin smiled at that notion. The thought of birds, any flying through the door to the patio he’d left open a general amount, had faded away well enough. Martin preferred his music when he was alone like this. No worry about finding someone, luring them into a trap for the police... No damned birds...

Skylar did not quite expect the reaction that he received. The face he saw almost screamed, “What the hell is with you?” It was not an uncommon reaction, to be so frank; many people were put off by Skylar for one reason or another. It seemed as if this person had a strong phobia of birds, and the guitarist had the misfortune of trying to console him with a saying that would indubitably make the man only more agitated. Nevertheless, the red-head chuckled and waved nonchalantly at the man on the other side of the railing. “Let me know when you finish planning that genocide!” he called out jokingly. There was this feeling in the pit of Skylar’s stomach that told him he would not become fast friends with the guy any time soon.

Either way, he could care less. Skylar came to this island for himself, to get away from the bustling city of Stockholm. It had been years since he could actually relax. It felt as if the world was spinning too quickly for him to catch up. It was a game of cat and mouse – Skylar versus the world. Everyone was progressing through life at the speed of sound, yet he was stuck in a silly community of wannabe musicians. For a second, the mere thought irked him and hit him somewhere deep in his heart, but the feeling was shaken off. Nothing would ruin his vacation.

As he headed back into her suite, guitar in hand, the sound of a violin could be heard from the room just across his. I guess the man beyond the balcony railing is a secret musician, Skylar laughed quietly. He could hear the notes float in the air, the reverberations almost mesmerizing. His eyes widened gradually as the man behind the strings revealed his artistry, the notes of a sorrowful melody echoing in his ears. It was beautiful in a strange, desolate kind of way.

Captivated by the beauty, Skylar’s body nearly moved on its own, dragging out a tiny amplifier from the over-packed suitcase he lugged into the hotel. It hardly registered in his mind that his guitar was suddenly connected to the amp and that his fingers had started to pluck at the strings. It was a moderately loud sound, but so tender as to not drown out the sound of the violin. For the first time in quite a while, Skylar was the accompaniment, and the mystery man was the ringleader.

It took focus---focus to ignore the world and understand what one played, what one made on their own. Besides his living, it was one thing he loved more than anything. Hitting a lower note, he caught something new. Another sound, besides the sounds outside the ajar door leading out to the balcony. It wasn't out there, but it was familiar. Was that young guitarist joining in? He almost laughed at the concept---he'd never heard a guitar and a violin playing together at one time by themselves, but now he did. He didn't pause, however, as he'd learned not to do even when a new sound entered the room, and found the resulting melody to be very good. Perhaps without a wall between them it'd sound ever clearer, but Martin couldn't bring himself to do something about that. He finished the melody smoothly, setting the violin down and inspecting the bow. No fibers had snapped from wear.

He stood and looked at his fingers. Over time the skin on his hands had thickened and toughened. Mostly from his work, but the rest was from his practicing and playing. With a sigh, Martin put his violin and bow away and went to the kitchen. They'd mentioned that, for the winners of the trips, there would be a variety of fruit kept in the fridge. Pulling the basket out, he read through the list of what was native to the island and the Caribbean in general. Amongst the ordinary grapefruits, cherries and mangoes, various other interesting things sat---guava, custard apples, cocoplum, chironja, and starfruit, amongst other things. Finding interest in a few, he pulled a small knife from a drawer and went back outside. The birds around here were just like those everywhere else---they'd leave you alone if you gave them food, and they weren't picky. Sitting, he set his picks close to him and was amazed that no birds had decided to congregate.

The sky was lighter now than it had been. Afternoon was here. Below the hotel only a few vehicles passed by, going to one of few open places. Martin wasn't sure how many places, specifically, were open, but they seemed to be constantly upgrading and bringing in more people. Inside, he hoped not many people would be here in his time around the island.