Niteblade Archives Pre-09

Sweat began to moisten Samantha’s forehead and she knew nausea wasn’t far behind. How much did the guitar cost? Why had she left hers at home? The itching in her fingers began to spread up her arms and cloud her thinking.

“Scuze me ma’am, are you alright?”

The question snapped Samantha out of hysteria and back to where she stood, facing the guitar salesman.

“I would like to buy it now,” she said, and was proud of the calm tone she used. Soon it would be okay, the right thing would be done and she could attend the business meeting with the other realtors. She ought to do it another way, just in case someone noticed, but the anger and terror of a public speaking engagement demanded this. There was no other way; she knew that.

By the time the guitar was paid for and in its case under her arm, Samantha was shaking so hard she found it difficult to walk. The salesman stared at her with big eyes and asked if she needed any help, but she ignored him and fought her way through the gathering fog towards the door.

One foot in front of the other one, don’t stop to play it, don’t think about the strings. Her fingers itched and burned for it, her eyes teared up and the urge to vomit caused her to double over just inside the doors of the hotel, but only for a moment.

Every step toward the second floor intensified the agony burning in her body and soul. Samantha fought to breathe, fought to climb and fought to keep from stopping. She ached for the calm serenity that lay behind the door to her room in the arms of a black guitar. She longed for the pain.

The key fell from her trembling fingers and Samantha paused for a moment. Ragged breathing filled the hallway and she wondered who was making all the noise. There was no one else here, so it must be her. The second attempt to unlock her room proved successful and Samantha closed the door carefully behind her and turned the lock.

Breath catching in her throat, hands shaking with the ache, she set the guitar case in the middle of the bed. Slowly, with cold determination, she began to remove her clothes. First came the black suit coat, then the red shirt, the black skirt and the red lingerie.

Once naked, Samantha stood before the floor length mirror and gloried in her reflection. Five-feet six inches tall, with a slender figure and large breasts, she looked like a model ought to look, save for the scars.

Thin white lines traveled from her knees to her waist, and crisscrossed her flat stomach. More jagged lines ran across her chest and under her breasts. She smiled at her reflection and touched a scar with a trembling index finger. Then she turned towards the bed.

The black and wine guitar glistened and sang to her as she pulled it out of the case and laid it on the edge of the bed. The ache to smash her fingers against those strings intensified and she stepped back in a quick jerky motion. First, she must put a towel on the floor, to catch the blood.

No one must know what she did, no one must ever find out about the pain and the blood–ever. Samantha retrieved a towel from the bathroom and laid it on the floor in front of the mirror. She took care to smooth out all the wrinkles, so it would be perfect, so she could savor the agony she suffered.

Then she took the guitar, sat in the center of the towel and crossed her legs. The wood felt cool against her naked skin as she hugged the instrument with her body. This was wrong, evil and sick, but she must do it anyway. No one else could do it, no one else was this strong. No one else could hurt her more than she could hurt herself.

Samantha began to play the black guitar. At first, she played a happy tune. Her fingers danced over the strings, and her body swayed to the music. The ache intensified and she smiled at herself in the mirror. Slowly, every so slowly, she began to lower the key. Soon a dark minor melody crept around the room, enveloping her in its haunting notes.

Hours passed, and still she played. Blood dripped from the guitar strings and ran down its black side onto the towel. Samantha stared at the woman in the mirror and gloried in the burning pain searing through her lacerated fingers as she produced each note to the never-ending song.

Hot anger coursed through her blood. Shame, insecurity and betrayal rode with it in the beautiful red liquid, so she let it out. The more she bled, the less it hurt. A buzz echoed in her ears and the image in the mirror began to fade, but still she played.

The towel soaked up the blood, and she could feel it against her naked skin. It was almost over, she had almost done it. Soon release would come, soon the anger and terror would wash away with the blood, soon everything would be clear again and she could wash her hands and put away the bloody guitar until tomorrow—-soon.

For now, the blood was enough. Why couldn’t she see the blood? Everything else seemed clear, but when she looked down at her fingers and the towel, her vision blurred. That bothered her, but not too much.

Samantha closed her eyes and smiled. The buzzing in her ears grew more intense and the pain increased, but still she played while the blood dripped from the guitar strings. This was the only way to find peace and release from everything, it was her only escape.

Tonight she would stand before the committee, and accept the award for best employee. She would wear gloves, black gloves and press that award against her torn fingers, but no one would know they were bleeding. No one would know what gave her the courage to stand up in front of everyone and appear calm. No one would know what pain and blood could do.

It was her secret.