Breakfast tasted like dirt; outside, the morning hadn't shown any sign of light yet; inside a car, watching the various parents hurl insults at each other, Nahaya tried to eat an egg with poorly washed spinach; it was a healthy thing... that's what she'd been told. The radio did nothing to improve the atmosphere; they were talking about the "monster".
"After the surprising arrest of the worst criminal to ever set foot in this country, the whereabouts of the victims remain unknown. This butcher claimed an incalculable number of people, made no distinction with anyone, yet there are still those who insist he was innocent and merely disturbed. Experts assure..."
"Daughter, we're about to arrive, finish that because I can't take it to work."
She had no intention of eating it; surely she would ask for something from the corner stand. The horrible sensation of unprocessed iron on her teeth was the least of her problems; the clouds began to cover the sun; for her, it wouldn't come out for the rest of the day.
The academic level wasn't questionable; there they taught everything a good monthly tuition could cover, except that few wanted to learn, not to mention they were prohibited from failing, suspending, or expelling as punishment. All of that passed through her head, taking her time, with slow steps to her classroom; the cracked walls releasing brick dust, trembling like her with the laughter of the demon that lived there.
She had to enter; nothing could prevent it; the alternative was that they would call her mother, who would arrive almost at closing time, furious, with her, the world, her job, wanting to be a single mother, the lies she believed when she was young and now trap her with a little girl who can't enter the classrooms and barely socializes. She didn't hit her, never in front of people, she just looked at her... a look of disappointment before turning her eyes to the latest gossip on her phone.
Beyond the institute's door, everything looked different; the hallways, although dark, belonged to an expensive school, seemed clean and smelled of fresh paint; the further you went, things were different, the physical damage became pronounced, the cracks threatened to reveal what they hid in the darkness. Her classmates, barely different from the humans outside this hell, all looked at her without eyes; empty sockets contemplated her before continuing with their lives. The desks were black, opaque, a horrible color, full of marks, many created with her face.
There, amid so much horror, Nahaya was the only one suffering in the shadows; no one else cared, because from the beginning they never needed ambient light or any other kind except from their devices, fused in their hands illuminating with a reddish tone, numbing the mind with little tunes, discordant because of their happiness, because of the rhythm. She reached her seat trying to hide; a small burst of pain in her foot, a stomp; for moments she lost concentration, sat down quickly, only to scream; something hot embedded itself in her rear; standing up, holding back the scream, there it was: a nail, red, sharp; no need to check, she was sure the aggression was personal; her demon was in the classroom.
The seat behind contained, with great effort, a stain, black eyes, smiling teeth; better that way; when she didn't have that grin, it meant she'd had a bad day; when that happened, she would take out her annoyance on her; there was history: bruises, chunks of hair with bits of skin, ridiculous scratches, or minor injuries like the one at this moment weren't evil; a joke perhaps, a very ingenious one, so much so that it wasn't worth reporting, least of all to the teacher, that being so boring, always slow, one eye stretched, watching the blackboard, the other watching — not her students; her limited capabilities didn't reach that far; no, it was the wall clock that entertained her, dividing time between the slides of useful information that no one would copy, while losing those seconds without looking for anything on her own device put her in a terrible mood; so, some time ago, she desperately tried to show that she was suffering; in reward, the girl received a note to appear with her mother... that night, the woman who gave birth to her had a conversation, the kind that ended up costing her some hair, not much; no one should see that controlling her anger wasn't her strong suit.
The next time she suffered, only those who heard her had evidence, rarely shared. She would escape, hide in the bathroom to clean the wounds with hand sanitizer, if any was left, if they hadn't used it on her body or her school supplies, maybe if her backpack was in the right place, like today. The routine to finish was a few tears shed and she felt strong enough, barely, enough to finish the day.
When she tried to open the door, it refused; the already dirty doorknob refused to move; she struggled for painful minutes, her hands reddened from the effort, from the cold. The sun, the red mist seen through the window, began to lose intensity; it wasn't early; the phone, a device everyone kept in their hand, was absent from hers; she still had those five fingers. The absence of the device was thanks to her mother; it distracted her, according to her words; yes, she herself never detached her eye sockets from the screen projected from the stump of what was once a hand. Hypocrisy or not, modern communication was ruled out; she was alone.
Thinking wasn't her strong suit, but she tried: friends? any teacher? maybe someone who didn't have their headphones on would hear her scream... she was willing to try; just at that moment she heard it, a laugh, small, stupid, loaded with everything that made her skin crawl; the entrance door to the bathrooms refused to let her free; she pulled harder; her fingers began to tear; behind her, the darkness increased.
"Help... please."
It wasn't a scream, perhaps a plea; a black mist began to emerge from under the doors of the other stalls; that forced her to pronounce the words, ones she hadn't used in months; why? dialogue with the threat? ask for help from someone who never looked at her? the authorities, her classmates, no one was interested; what benefit would something like that bring them? But this was different; the laugh, still there, seconds hysterical, other moments just low, waiting for her to close her eyes; now, besides the darkness of nightfall, another distraction occurred: the room's lights began to work, violet lamps, flickering, hurt her; but she wouldn't close her eyes; she knew that as soon as she did, whatever was hiding there would come for her.
The voice, a deaf growl, began to bounce off the marked tile walls.
Coward.
You've only been there so little.
I should sell you to a homeless person.
That way you'd be the pinnacle of what you are.
A failure.
Wife of a coward!
No! she wasn't alone; in there, unable to get out, her tormentor waited for her; the spy apparently hadn't come alone; she heard the scratching of voices sounding against what remained of her coherence, squeezing her eyes, straining her vision not to cry and not to blink.
You smell like shit.
The scaredy-crap.
That's how they'll find your corpse.
There she began to feel she was losing her mind; blood flowed from her nose, her eyes; the last thing she saw was the last bathroom door opening; from there, black eyes, those crooked teeth, looking at her, mocking her fate.
A hand touched her, perhaps a lot, perhaps a little, but it was rough; it traveled all over her body; it felt less like a threat, more like an unwanted intrusion. In a burst of courage, she jumped from the spot; in front of her, a small, scrawny goblin looked at her; his mood was cheerful.
"Defend yourself; I won't always be here to look for your clothes."
Those words had another intention; she felt the cold; she was unprotected, next to the little man; her skirt cut, her blouse torn, her underwear a brown stain... nausea made her release the bile her stomach held.
"But don't vomit... how clean here!"
"Sorry."
"Come on, you don't have to disappear; I rinsed your clothes as best I could, but that bra is unsalvageable; maybe if you tell your mother."
That was motivation enough; she didn't know what time it was, but it didn't matter; as best she could, she arranged what was left of her clothes and ran out. The light was dying when she reached the avenue, but now darkness accompanied her. The smell of death was on her clothes, on her skin; the garments that never meant much now had a dark tone. The mutilation of the textile was intentional; still holding the clothes, they left her body exposed to many eyes that judged her. The glow of their sockets was noticeable, of the lens capturing her entire being; she quickened her pace.
At home, no one saw her; a work meeting had detained her mother, according to the note in the kitchen where a wilted salad waited for her; what could have been swallowable in the afternoon was now a pasty, dark lump; she tried to eat it. It was dangerous to leave food on the plate, but it was worse. When she went up to take a shower, she came out; there she washed away her miseries: pain, regret, fear; she clenched her jaw; she couldn't vomit; she wouldn't go back to the psychologist for an eating disorder; and finally in her room she used the needle as much as she knew how, to create an image that nothing had happened; but like a broken vase, it wouldn't be the same, especially when her mother noticed.
A lonely email on the house computer informed her that her father had sent a message of encouragement. He couldn't visit her; they couldn't talk or see each other, by court order; this was the only means she had to know she still had another adult in her life. He asked how she was; the only possible response was sent (because the email was audited by her mother and the authorities).
"I'm fine, thanks."
There was no rest when sleeping; knowing her mother would take her the next day terrified her, but nothing happened. During the trip, she ate while sweating; the smell of lukewarm eggs was unbearable in the car, to the point that the air conditioning was set to level 4; her clothes were now brown, wrinkled where she couldn't do anything to compensate for the damage; even so, her mother saw nothing. The light that still remained in those sockets called eyes had gone out; she was completely alone; the radio seemed to mock her or perhaps wanted to give her advice.
"Vigilante imitates the butcher, but this one, instead of eliminating everyone he saw as a demon, limited himself, using reprehensible means, to expelling all the evil that inhabits our neighborhoods; authorities indicate he failed in his attempt to eliminate the mayor; little is said about the decrease in crime levels; could it be time to take justice into one's own hands?"
The day was calm, except for the little laughs that were always there; the dark, heavy classroom; the ignorant and useless teacher; she could almost feel it was a normal day, until in the hallway she heard it.
"Hey! Shitty, see you at the exit; if you don't come, you'll regret it."
Something broke inside; she didn't know what would come, but she couldn't survive if she attended the appointment; she preferred her mother to come for her. She ran to the principal's office, where a stick insect with glasses looked at her with repulsion and, under the excuse of not having an appointment, denied her access. From the entrance, she saw the red light; the thing that ruled this place was busy with something fun. She gave up.
Upon leaving, a reddish halo was visible; a huge group had gathered; everyone passing by pointed their devices, the usual; there, on the path, the black eyes waited for her, laughing; in her claw, the red light, she was playing something; from it came a hyena's laugh, similar to the tormentor's laugh, accompanied by laughter, screams, many, full of pain; she knew the voice; they were hers.
"Welcome, shitty; you're about to witness your appearance in the world's networks; everyone will see you."
"What did I do to you?"
"Could you do something to me? Idiot! I do it because I CAN AND I WANT TO! Because:
I FUCKING FEEL LIKE IT!"
"Enough!"
"What?"
"I said ENOUGH!"
She ran, clumsy, full of rage, hate; the swipe reached the device in the black eyes' hand; the light flew away until it crashed against the path's rocks; the smile disappeared, but there was no time to see it. The second was a scratch; it didn't matter where; the unpolished nails tore flesh, but nothing prevented paying for those two attacks... Although the response came; the blow hit her directly in the nose.
"Oh yeah! You think you're so tough! You won't get out of here alive."
It didn't matter; it wasn't like she had anywhere to retreat; she kicked when she could, scratched, hit, thrashed, with the energy that terror gave her. Each blow made her whole body tremble, but if she stopped, it would only get worse. That monster was suffering; finally she could return some of all the damage she had done to her.
"Enough! Don't provoke me, idiot!"
She wouldn't stop; there was no way; all the face-sockets of the school were focused on them, using the red light to watch, laughing, happy about things; if she ended up on the ground, fine, but that wasn't the case, and for some reason that was better; she saw them in groups of two or three, blocking anyone who wanted to approach. This was their entertainment; no one would deny it to them.
Finally, a blow with her head to the demon's jaw threw it to the ground. The bad thing was that she couldn't move; there was no strength left; she had given everything; it was impossible to continue; she fell to her knees, helpless, saw the shadow rise; she tried to ask for help, but her mouth tasted of blood and dirt; From the ground, with moisture in her ears, she saw her. The tormentor's face began to show itself clearly — no longer just black eyes and crooked teeth, but a girl, somewhat obese, scratched and very beaten. She had finally crossed the line. She wanted to shout her victory, but there was no air left. The show was over, although the mob still hadn't disappeared. Increasingly tired, she refused to let go; she couldn't; she had to witness one more act. The sockets of the onlookers began to glow, filled in; they were red, red eyes, bloodshot; it was the thirst for blood. Several of those celebrating began to pick up stones; she saw them and knew her tormentor would soon have company. A dark satisfaction filled what was left of her — not because they would help her; she was beyond help. It was because now they had an excuse. Now her killer would be hunted by the rest of the monsters, the ones she never considered. The ones who had always been there, watching, filming, laughing."..."