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Scene #34
Samantha Blair struggled to move. This wasn't her room or her bed, and it sure as hell wasn't her body. Tears welled and trickled slowly from eyes not her own.
Then the pain started.
Still she couldn't move. She could only endure. Terror clawed at her soul while dying nerves screamed.
The knife sliced deep, again and again, sending unrelenting aftershocks of pain rippling through her. The attack became a frenzy of stabs and slices, snatching all thought away. Her body jerked and arched in a macabre dance. Black spots blurred her vision, and still the slaughter continued.
Sam cried out her terror. The cracked broken voice bewildered her even more. That wasn't her voice. Confusion reigned as her mind grappled with reality. What was going on?
Understanding crashed in on her. With it came despair and horror.
She'd become a visitor in someone else's nightmare. Locked inside a horrifying energy warp, she'd become linked to this poor woman whose life dripped away from multiple gashes.
Another psychic vision.
The knife slashed down, impaling the woman's abdomen, splitting her wide from ribcage to pelvis. Her agonized scream echoed on forever in Sam's mind. She cringed in repugnance.
The other woman slipped into unconsciousness, but Sam wasn't offered the same gift. Now, the pain was Sam's alone. The stab wounds and broken bones, Sam's to experience.
The woman's head fell to one side, her cheek resting on the blood soaked bedding. From the new vantage point, Sam's horrified gaze locked on a bloody knife held high by a man dressed in black from the top of his head down. Only his eyes showed, glowing with feverish delight. She shuddered. Please dear God, let this end soon.
The attacker's fury died suddenly. A fine tremor shook his arm, fatigue setting in. "Shit." He removed his glove and scratched beneath the fabric.
From the corner of her eye, Sam caught a metallic glint of a ring on his hand in the waning moonlight. It mattered. She knew it did. She struggled to imprint the image before the opportunity was lost. Her eyes drifted closed. In the darkness of her mind, the wait—endless.
Sam's soul wept. Oh God, she hated this. Why? Why was she here? She couldn't help the woman, she couldn't even help herself.
She welcomed the next blow—so light only a minor flinch undulated through the dreadfully damaged woman. Her tortured spirit stirred deep within the rolling waves of blackness, struggling for freedom. With one last surge of energy, her eyes opened, and locked onto the white rings of the mask staring back. In ever-slowing heartbeats, her circle of vision narrowed until the two soulless orbs blended into one small shrinking band before it blinked out altogether.
The silence, when it came, was absolute.
Gratefully, Sam relaxed into death.
***
Sam bolted upright in bed. Survival instincts screamed at her to run; agony dropped her in back in place. "Ohh," she cried out.
Fearing more pain, she slid her hands over her belly. Her fingers slipped along the raw edges of a deep slash. Hot tears poured. Warm sticky liquid coated her fingers. "Oh God, oh God, oh God," she chanted.
Staring in confusion around her, fear, panic, and finally, recognition seeped into her dazed mind. Early morning rays highlighted the water stains shining on the ceiling and the banged up suitcases open on the floor. An empty room—an empty life. A remnant of a foster care childhood.
She was home.
Memories swamped her, flooding her senses with yet more hurt. Sam broke down. Like an animal, she tried to curl into a tiny ball only to scream again as pain jackknifed through her. Torn edges of muscle tissue and flesh rubbed against each other, and broken ribs creaked with the slightest movement, blood soaking the sheets below.
The smell. Wet wool fought with the unique and unforgettable odor of fresh blood.
Tremors wracked her tiny frame keeping the pain alive as she morphed through realities.
Transition time.
Like hell. This was hard-core healing time— when bones knitted, sliced ligaments and muscle tissue grew back together, and skin stitched itself closed. Each blow leveled at the victim had manifested in her own body. Sam understood her injuries had something to do with her imperfect control paired with her inability to accept her gifts. She didn't quite understand how or why but her body always healed. Physical and mental scars remained.
The physical process took from ten to twenty minutes—depending on the injuries. The mental confusion, disconnectedness, sense of isolation lasted much longer. She paid for moving too soon. Shuddering, Sam grappled to find the frayed edges of her control. It wouldn't be much longer.
Nothing could stop the hot tears leaking from her closed eyelids.
This session had been bad. She'd never experienced one so physically damaging. Nervously, she wondered at the extent of her blood loss. If she didn't learn how to disconnect, these visions could be the end of her—literally.
Just like that poor woman.
These episodes were changing, growing, developing. That they were so powerful and so ugly made her sick to her soul.
Several minutes later, Sam raised her head to survey the bed. The pain was manageable, although she wouldn't be able to move yet. Blood had soaked the top of the many thrift store blankets heaped on the bed. Her hollowed belly had become a vessel for the congealing blood. Shit. The stuff was everywhere.
The metallic taste clung to her lips and teeth. She rolled the disgusting spit around the inside of her mouth, waiting. Weary, ageless patience added to the bleakness in her heart.
Ten more minutes passed. Now, she should be good to go. Lifting her head, she spat the bloody gob onto the waiting wad of tissue and noted the time.
Transition had taken fifteen minutes this morning.
She was improving.
Oh God. Sam broke into sobs again.
Christ, she was tired of waking up dead.
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