An eternal night haunted her school. Amity glanced over her shoulder to the window pinned against spine. Despite it being one in the afternoon, a starless night hung in the sky, for no light could penetrate the school’s misery. Amity winced, the window behind her cracking as she pressed further into it.

A demon clutched her throat.

She did nothing wrong to provoke it. The revolting fiend simply despised her existence. Amity supposed all demons did. Still, she wished it had another target of torment, someone who deserved it. 

Other students walked on, paying her distress no heed. To them, Amity deserved every second of suffering inflicted upon her. They all hated her and they showed it. Her quiet nature branded her as prey: a punching bag for her classmates’ insults and a literal punching bag for demons.

Days between periods were spent in shadow, avoiding crowds and speed walking to the next class. But on days like this, demons laid in ambush, eagerly awaiting her torment. Amity sighed. It was always the last days of the week, for they wished to leave a lasting impression over the weekend. Amity could kick and shout all she liked, but such would only attract the attention of other such demons. In light of this, she remained silent, enduring the fiery words and harsh blows. Tears streamed Amity’s bruised cheeks, but she refused the satisfaction they all craved; her screams.

With a fresh set of aches, the demon released her and Amity hobbled to the next period… and the next… and the next. The teachers took no notice of her detrimental state. Why would they? Demons were a part of this life, an occupational haphazard. Amity could do nothing but accept her hellish fate. Oh, she tried alright. She alerted the school counselor of her troubles, but there was nothing he could do. They held no evidence of demons and thus, couldn’t exorcize them. They called her insane, claiming the problem resided in her. Amity recalled their condescending sympathy, their hollow words of feigned condolence. It meant nothing, for it did nothing. She’d tell her parents, but had she tried that already. All they did was tell the counselor what he already knew. The counselor would nod, pretending to hear such stories for the first time.

And then nothing.

It always ended in nothing.

The counselors suggested Amity conjured the demons of her own psychosis and recommended a therapist to her parents. She detested therapy: sitting alone in a room with a person who should’ve written a fictitious story about caring. They don’t listen. They tell you what should be wrong. They tell you why you’re broken and what to fix about yourself. They don’t explain why or how. They don’t care. They only cared for her father’s paycheck.

“I don’t need therapy. I have an electric guitar.”

Parents didn’t buy that and neither did her therapist. Still, they didn’t have to, no one did. Amity didn’t require their approval to abuse her stratocaster, the only friend she truly trusted. She darted home for it now, racing through the door and upstairs to her room. Amity’s friend lay where she left it atop her bed, snuggled into her flowery-pink sheets. Her parents weren’t home and wouldn’t be till nightfall; just Amity and her secret friend.

Vaulting over onto her mattress, she shoved in the guitar’s amp cable and slung the straps over her shoulders. Amity puffed at her bangs. Plucking the metallic strings, her voice erupted with terrifying passion. Most would assume Amity to be throat-screaming when in truth, it was how she spoke to her guitar. A voice lay trapped in its output jack, a voice she could free by aggressively picking. Strums were too weak a language and the guitar only knew violence.

Before Amity met her friend, she would return home alone, covered in bruises and scratches. The demonic torment would ring in her ears, throb across her welts. Her sobbings couldn’t drown out the voices, the pain. She had laughed at her own pathetic circumstance, tears streaming her smile. Shoulders shaking, she tore through her drawers, searching for her jack-knife. She required it to cut sigils into her flesh, their pain warding off the demonic torment. Scars littered her body, concealed from unwanted attention with long sleeves.

However, on that particular day, Amity never found her knife.

In her drawer, she uncovered a glass rosary, black as pitch. It smelt of ash and left an inky dust on her fingertips. A note could be found attached to its cross, reading: from the deepest concaves of your heart. Amity’s hands cupped the rosary, alarmed as she was intrigued. Her staggered breath falling across its glass beads and the rosary emitted a coarse riff similar to that of a laugh. One of its beads fell, convulsing and expanding like a living cocoon. It grew to her size before exploding in red goo, a stratocaster guitar in its place. She had taken it tentatively, the bloody goo dissipating in a dark steam. The guitar itself was an oily black, rimmed with an energized yellow. Inscribed across the guitar’s body in a swirling font of gold, read the word, Empathy.

Since then, Amity developed an intimate friendship with the guitar. It understood her, listened to her… comforted her. She could speak freely, screaming her emotions to it at whatever volume suited her agony. Most assumed Amity to be quiet and reserved, when in truth, a roaring storm resided in her core. No other force on Earth could vent her emotions like the metallic strings of her guitar. Unlike the therapists and counselors, it offered an answer, a solution.

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The rosary.

Take it to school.

Amity had always been too weak to entertain the notion, but as she screamed her sorrows, she couldn’t help but entertain the idea. The rosary contained blasphemous power, a power she was yet to tap into. Her guitar advised she crush the beads, unleashing a higher form known as Desire. Amity’s heart fell in her chest at what it insinuated, but… maybe that’s where the problem lied.

Her heart.

Maybe that’s why they all despised her, why they assumed her weakness. The guitar acknowledged this truth and warned how if she didn’t freeze her heart, the demons would. Amity nodded to herself, slashing her hand across the strings as her outro concluded. She knew what needed to be done, what she had to do.

The next morning, Amity walked to school with the rosary in her back pocket. Hood drawn over her head, she melded into the crowd of students, following them in. The sunlight fell from view, overcome by the school’s gloomy atmosphere. Taking a deep breath, Amity proceeded to her first period with little hindrance. Well, other than one stupid hall monitor, who insisted he probe her; a pathetic excuse to touch her inappropriately. He was no demon, but he tempted her.

No.

It wasn’t until lunch period that Amity’s patience wore thin. She sat in the corner of the cafeteria, isolated from the crowded tables: the perfect hunting ground for demons and their earthly followers. Three classmates made an effort to approach her and affronted her with unspeakable curses and slurs. Amity pulled her knees to her chest, their words ricocheting off her hardened heart. Though indifferent she may have appeared, their words roiled the storm.

No.

Their fiery words attracted the attention of two demons, their entire being darker than night save for their blazing-white eyes. The classmates retreated, leaving Amity to fend the demons off for herself. Their lanky claws tore at her hoodie, pried at her pants, but she refused to go so easily. Amity bit their groping hands, kicked their shadowy shins. She longed to scream for help, but knew what it would attract.

Scream.

A gut-wrenching cry escaped Amity, but no help came. The only attention she garnered were more demons, who drifted over to assist in pinning her limbs down. She writhed, trying to squirm free, but they beat down her resistance with their gnarled fists. Amity knew their intentions, more than familiar with their diabolical nature. She fought tooth and nail to her knees, but froze, overcome by the fear of what they intended.

Desire.

The demons shoved Amity to the floor, piling atop her. They battered her against the tiles, the glass rosary shattering as she landed atop it. With an ear-piercing laugh, a bloody-red goo splayed out from under her, splattering across her assailants. The goo sizzled, settling into their skins with scalding heat as it dissolved into a black cloud. The demons fell to the floor, shrieking in horror and pain. Pain.

Pain.

Amity rose to her feet, the storm in her yellow eyes shining through the black mist. An electric guitar now slung over her back, its black body shimmering ominously and its yellow trim glittering with a thirst for flesh. Puffing the hair from her eyes, Amity swung the guitar into her arms. Her scars radiated a flaming red, incinerating her sleeves. Ashes fell from her arms, a wicked smile crossed Amity’s lips, and she tore at the strings. Though an electric stratocaster, the instrument required no amp, for her trauma sufficed. 

Her scars flared with fire, unchained the storm; bolts of yellow lightning tore from the pickups, their thrashing energy digging into the nearest demon’s heart.

Scream.

The amber bolts tore at the demon’s visage, peeling back its ashen skin to reveal a teen boy’s lifeless face. Amity gasped, her amplified rage cutting off. The emotion… the way he just withered before her… she never felt more alive. A screeching cackle tore from her throat as the other demons fled in vain. They couldn’t escape her turbulent notes, her furious picking, nor her thunderous voice. Her rhythm accelerated with their haste, a web of lightning exploding from her guitar and tearing through the hoard. Lightning shot through their hearts, shattering their skulls and scorching their flesh.

As her music climaxed, Amity raised her guitar overhead, towering over a handful of survivors. They begged, just as she had. They screamed, just as she had. Amity smiled in the tear-stained face of their torment. 

Just as they had. 

Unfortunately, an entourage of cops and wannabe-heroes had long breached the building and had just then surrounded her. Their guns were directed at her. After everything she had been forced to endure, it was all… once again… her fault. She couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe them. She was the problem. They offered her help; they offered to fix her—her. Like she needed fixing. Amity scoffed, choking on her tears.

And all the while, their voices cried out for her to lower the guitar.

Amity smirked and compiled; she slammed her stratocaster down on the survivors, pulverizing their craniums and shattering their fingers. The police opened fire, but couldn’t hinder butchery. The survivors pleas rose to blood-curdling screeches, the perfect outro to her tempo. As their voices faded, Amity released her gorey instrument, its fractured wood clattering against the floor. Free of the guitar’s influence, the burning rounds finally pierced her flesh, littering her body in holes. Her insides burned from their bite, but pain was an old acquaintance, one soon to abandon her.

With a soft smile, the storm subsided and Amity collapsed.