The school auditorium is empty except for the janitor sweeping near the doors. I like it that way. Just me, the stage, and the guitar. It's the red one today. My electric. Heavier than the acoustic. Angrier. I plug it in, test the amp, and take a deep breath. No one's here. Or so I think.
I start to play. It's loud, messy, full of chords that clash and resolve too late. It's not the polished stuff I play for class recitals. This is mine. Raw, like how my stomach knots every time I walk in the door at home. Like the bruise forming under my ribs from last night.
I don't sing. Just play until my fingers ache. When I finish, I sit on the edge of the stage, sweating. A message from my mom. Just one word:
Come.
I stare at it. I don't reply. The screen dims in my hand.
I don't see anyone. Just hear the janitor again.
Nothing else.