Authors note: This is mainly a cry for help: anyone would would like to be nice enuff to me to tell me how to make something in italics, i will give them a cookie. (and you know you want cookies...) as you can see, HTML doesnt like me. :(

i“I’ll always love you, Samantha.”

I hear his voice. I breathe in his scent. I feel the cold steel under my chin. The blade has already nicked me, and a warm trickle of blood is sliding down my throat. “Jenner…” I murmur, “Please. Please, don’t do this.”

I don’t see his eyes (hell, I don’t see anything thru this damned blindfold he has on me) but I know they are closed, now. He always closes his eyes when he feels defeated. “You know I have to. You know it’s for your own good. They can’t hurt what I've already killed.”

“Jen—“my words are cut off as he slides the blade across my throat. It’s hard to speak when your vocal chords have been sliced in half. The best you manage is a gurgle.

The last thing I hear before I lose consciousness is a gunshot. The last I feel is his body as it falls atop mine./i

**

“Samantha!”

The sound of my name jerked me awake. I’ve always been amused at the fact that a person can sleep while a TV is on, a radio is playing, children are crying in the next room, and the vacuum is running, yet the sound of their name is enough to wake them from even the deepest sleep. I raised my head from my desk. An errant paper stuck to my cheek from drool. I snatched it away, embarrassed. I knew from my boss’ look that the words were still embossed on my face. They’d be there for the rest of the day, knowing the type of ink that I use.

“I take it by your nap time that you’re finished with the inventory” Jack (my boss) stated. Not asked. Stated. He raised an eyebrow at me, expecting a reply.

“Uh…not exactly.”

“What a surprise.” He let out a breath and studied my face. I knew what it saw. No matter how much concealer I use under my eyes, the bags are still almost as noticeable as that damned ink. He rubbed the spot in between his eyes. “Go home, Sam. Get some sleep. Ill finish up the inventory for tonight.”

“But—“

“Take this as a hint of my mellowing out in my old age. Go before I change my mind,”

Giving him a little smile, I nodded, standing, and put on my jacket.

“Oh, and Samantha?”

I stopped halfway to the door, and turned, “Yeah, Jack?”

“Be careful walking home. There’re a lot of weirdoes out there, lately. “

“I’ll be fine. Thanks, Jack.”

**

Ever have that feeling that something isn’t right? You walk in a room, and something seems…off to you, but you can’t place your finger on it? I wish I could say that I had that feeling when I walked in the door to my apt…but I can’t. Everything seemed fine when I came home that night. A little messy, but that’s to be expected living with a roommate and a dog. Things get messed up. Dishes get piled up (from the roomie), couches get chewed on (from the dog), life is not cut and paste, spic and span. Though I was surprised that Hunter didn’t come out immediately running to see me, I figured that Alicia must have taken him out for a walk.

I moved thru the apartment, discarding winter clothing articles and laying them wherever I saw fit. I would pick them up, later; for now all I wanted to do was get some sleep. Or at least try to. Slipping off my shoes as I walked, I immediately stepped in something cold, and wet. And red. Alicia must have spilt her paint again. Looking to my right, I confirmed my thought, noticing a half painted canvas. There was a large spot of dark red in the center, fanning outwards into a brighter hue. As if she dipped the brush in the paint and just smacked it onto the cloth. Abstract. Interesting. I knew that dinner would consist mainly of her talking of what asshole had influenced it.

It was around that thought that I tripped over the asshole that influenced it. The bullet hole in his head immediately told me that what was on the canvas (and what my right foot was in) was not red paint. And seeing another body under his, I realized that more than likely what I was standing in did not belong to him.

i“They can’t hurt what I’ve already killed…”/i

“Fuckin’ dreams.” I thought, as my mouth opened to scream.