Sam awoke with a start, and then a flailing panic. One moment she was fleeing from a fucking clown, and now she was... Sam struggled hard against her bonds. She was seated in a simple chair, legs shackled to it down below. Her hands were more movable, but when she'd raised them they went straight into the blade's edge of knives pressed into the tender flesh on the tops of her arm just enough to draw blood. She squirmed hard, trying to see anything but the blades in front of her face. But she settled down just enough to avoid opening herself up. Breath, breath. She was, but she was hyperventilating by the time the old television from before she was born flickered on into static before forming a video. Oh. This asshole again.
"HELLO, SAMANTHA. HAVE YOU EVER TIRED OF WEARING YOUR MASK? PRETENDING THAT NOTHING BOTHERS YOU. THAT EVERYTHING IS A LARK. LIKE A TRUE STAGE ACTRESS YOU LONG TO BE. PRETEND. THAT'S THE NAME OF YOUR GAME. NO CLOSE FRIENDS BECAUSE THEY CAN'T STAND YOU. LONGING AFTER A SISTER WHO DOESN'T NEED YOU. IF YOU WISH TO LIVE YOU'LL FINALLY CARVE OFF THAT MASK THAT KEEPS YOU CHAINED AND LET OTHER PEOPLE IN."
Sam wrinkled her nose. That wasn't true, was it? Like it was true to some degree, Sam could admit that, but what teenager was totally honest with everyone about what bothered them? "Oh fuck off!" The retort resonated uselessly around the empty room. Okay, Sam, think. There was a plate through the knives in front of her. She couldn't use her hands, she couldn't use her legs. So... clearly the only thing not restrained was that should could lean forward the extra few inches and put her face to the blades. She wasn't totally sure, but it looked like they'd give, eventually, and make way for her. She swallowed in trepidation. She could do this. I mean, maybe not? But she didn't have a choice. This wasn't really a choice, it was do this or die. Jack would do it, obviously. Sapna sure as hell would. Probably without hesitation. Her brain was her thing, not her face, right? Right. She grit her teeth and moved forward until her face came up against the blades, eight in total, four mounted on each side and then cried out as they pricked her skin.
No.
She had to. She steeled herself, pushed, and was lost in her scream and the pain.