To Play a Black Guitar
To Play a Black Guitar
by Rhona Westbrook
Samantha stroked the guitar, and pressed her fingers hard against the thin metal strings. A sharp tingle shot up her arm and she smiled. This would do fine, but she needed a black guitar; so no one would see the blood.
The eager salesman stood beside Samantha and tried to look important. He scratched his nose and cleared his throat.
“That’s a fine instrument there,” he said. “A Seagull.”
Samantha nodded, but didn’t look away from the shining metal strings.
“Do you have a black one?”
“I think so, hang on–I’ll go check.”
Samantha looked at the other guitars hanging on the wall of the little shop. The gleaming cedar, red cherry, and light oak instruments created a picture in her mind. It was a picture of pain, pleasure and release. A picture of blood.
She tossed long black hair out of her eyes and smiled again. This plan would be better than the others. This plan would save her. The starched collar of her business suit poked at her throat, but she made no move to adjust it.
Samantha wondered if wood could feel. She touched a white guitar and resisted the urge to push her fingers against the smallest string until it bled. They’d see blood on the white. Samantha hated white. White lied, white hurt, white caused only pain without pleasure. Still, the sharp string called to her, begging her to let the pain out and let it drip away.
A scuffle at her side rescued Samantha from her thoughts and she turned to look at the instrument in the salesman’s arms. She sucked in her breath and stared at the guitar. Dark blue-black streaks ran through the wood, caressing the wine colored body and pure black neck. Shining steel strings begged to be touched and she couldn’t resist.
“May I try it out?”
“Of course ma’am, follow me.”
Every step separating her from that guitar, tortured Samantha more. By the time they reached the back of the store she was trembling in rage. The salesman was an idiot, just like all the others. She took a deep breath and pulled the anger back from the edge of her control. It must be harnessed and frozen until it coursed through her veins and obeyed her every wish. She never lost control.
The salesman pointed to a low stool and held the guitar out to Samantha.
“You can sit here and play for a bit,” he said. “If you like it, I’ll be over at the cash register.”
Samantha reached for the instrument, but her hand shook and she pulled back in horror. She couldn’t play here, she needed more than this. The salesman would notice and interrupt. That could not happen.
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