She Devil

She Devil

There was an agonizing squeal as the door swung open; I stepped through into the darkness, groping along the wall. A staggered flicker as the lights came on. Most of the lights came on; there were a few dim spots where the fluorescent bulbs were dead or dying. She stood silently in the middle of the room; she was waiting for me. Her body shone: she was clad in a bright, feisty red from top to bottom, glowing under the globe hanging at the centre of the small room. Bright red and sporting a stylish pair of devil-horns, clearly she was Satan’s very own daughter. I’m convinced that was half of the appeal.

I stepped over to her, saying not a word and took her up in my arms. I could see my eyes reflected, yet slightly distorted in shining red. I smirked; Satan’s own daughter indeed. I held her body close to mine, and ran a hand up and down her sleek neck. A chill ran down my spine. It was time.

I reached into my pocket, but could not find what I was looking for. I panicked and nearly dropped her. What I would have done if that red had been tarnished! Where was it? I always kept one in my pocket. This was bad. Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.

I looked at the floor between my feet. There it was. I let out a sigh of relief, set her down gently and quickly and sheepishly picked it up from the ground. I stepped over to the speakers against the far wall and with haste, flicked a couple of switches. There’d be music in a moment.

I picked her up again; taking note of the grip now around my shoulder. I held her neck gently in one hand; every finger carefully positioned. The shard of plastic that worried me so gripped tightly between my index finger and thumb. I strum across the strings lightly. I hear nothing. This is very bad.

I looked around. I could feel the dull throb of electricity in the air; the amplifiers were turned on. The cables were plugged in. The ebony volume knob of the guitar itself was turned to ten. What then, was the problem? I tried again, strumming out couple of chords. No sound. Well, no loud sounds; the guitar itself reverberated and made sounds so quiet and uncharacteristic of an electric guitar; it almost seemed meek.

I put the guitar down for a second time and looked at the amplifier. It all seemed in order. Most definitely turned on, volume turned up, tone adjusted to my preference. A massive, coiling snake of cable ran from the input jack and toward the chaotic-yet-carefully-arranged array of pedals that lay on the floor. I studied them and they too looked to be in order; or at least as far as order counted among the collection of boxes linked with small cables going in and out of input and output ports.

I couldn’t figure it out. It was never usually this difficult. A million times I’d come in here, pick her up and things would go perfectly well. Why now? Why this one time out of any other? This was important, I needed to do this. And I needed to do it now.
I tried turning everything off and on again. Still no effect; I couldn’t make her sing, nor scream nor wail. I got so incredibly frustrated that I nearly screamed!

I sat, wracking my brain for a solution when I saw it. It was so obvious that finally seeing it felt like a slap across the face. Hung across the back of the guitar stand was a cable. The cable that connected the guitar to everything else was draped in plain sight and mocked my obliviousness. How on earth did I miss it?

Problem solved, I picked up my guitar, the red, horned, devil-child one last time. Holding her close one last time, caressing her neck, she screamed and wailed and sung out. Satan’s own daughter indeed.