I had a lucky spare moment to revive my meager guitar skills last winter break, all alone in the house, without piano and viola taking priority. I unzipped the soft Gryphon case anticipating the honey blond wood and silver pegs. Instead, I reeled back in shock as I pulled the wounded animal out of its cage. A large depression was on the right upper body and the neck made an obtuse angle with the rest of the fingerboard. Splintered wood littered the fuzzy lining and taut nylon strings begged to be freed. My eyes started to water, more so then when my rabbit died just a few months before. I was angry and felt betrayed by whatever accident ruined my vacation day. I pulled out my phone even though I knew my mom wouldn't answer. I mumbled some angry words into a voicemail about the tragedy and how my guitar was "a piece of shit" and then hung up quickly, staring dejectedly down at my dead friend. When my parents came home and examined the scene of the crime, we ruled out falling books as the cause. The suspect: my dad's foot. He didn't even notice at the time, although he became sympathetic. I may have a new guitar now, but the lacquered splinters I find every so often on the inside of my old case reminds me of the trust I have lost in my dad's competence.