BLOODBATH
The guitar stood in the corner of the room. Glistening. Powerful. Energy. Even as Scott lay on the bed, staring at it, he could feel the power it gave him, the immense feeling of control. The control he could get over his fans. The control he could get over the minds of his fans. He had never noticed it before last night's gig. It had been one hell of a rocking night. There he had stood, the rest of his group behind him, playing solos that he had never played before, solos that were playing themselves, moving his fingers up and down the fret board, losing his control over them. And then there had been the screaming. He had never imagined he could control that much. He thought they were just enjoying the music. Then he saw the blood. And yet he continued playing, but it hadn't been him playing. He hadn't been in control of his fingers.

He wondered if it could have all been a dream, or maybe someone had spiked his drink or if he had just imagined it, he had been working really hard lately, the small tour they were doing nearly over. But then he noticed the pile of clothes in the corner. Stained with blood. Though it wasn't his blood and he hadn't put it there. It had been the guy that had been about to stage dive when he had.... Scott didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about any of it. It was too much for him to comprehend. He was just a guitarist. Nothing more. He wasn't even a singer, even though he was fronting the band. The fans seemed to like the idea but he didn't. He was uncomfortable. He didn't like his voice and felt awkward using it in front of so many people. But there had been a lot of people there last night. And few of them left the building when Scott and the rest of his band had finished playing.

There was a knock at the door. A bearded man shoved his head in and looked at Scott, grinning mischievously.

"Hope you give us a show like last night." He grinned harder than before. "The press can't get enough of you. You've made it onto every news in the state, and probably the nationals as well."

"Do you really want another night like last night?" asked Scott wearily.

"Of course. This is doing your reputation excellent things."

The man began to withdraw then remembered something else. "I nearly forgot. You're on stage in two minutes. Get ready and tune up." He added as he walked away, "Knock 'em dead."

Scott cringed at those words. Last night they had become all too graphic. But he was a performer and a performer must give to his audience what they want, what they ask for. And they asked for him to give them another show like last night.

Scott wondered what sort of people would actually be in that crowd. Junkies? Punks? The garbage of society? Very likely. It wasn't like his music attracted the classy section of the population. But that didn't matter. It was an audience.

Scott stood and looked at himself in the full length mirror. He had always thought himself too thin, almost ill-looking. His skin was turning an unnatural pale and his eyes were acquiring black rings. He wondered if that was lack of sleep or stress or.... Who cared? After tonight, it may be all over for him. His whole career gone. But what a way to go. On every TV in the country. Three times today he tuned into MTV to see the latest music that was tearing up the charts and every time only one song had been playing. His. His latest single ironically titled, "Bloodbath". Had they played any other song that day? It didn't seem likely, not after last night's gig....

Scott took a swig from the vodka bottle stood on a table near him. He needed it. Usually it was just to stop his voice shaking. Tonight it was to try and blind himself to the horror in the audience. He picked up his guitar. He felt the black power seer into his body as he flung the strap over his head and shifted the solid weapon into place. Unamplified, he twanged out a short riff and then, picking up the vodka and taking it with him, he went out of the room.

It wasn't far to get to the stage and yet it seemed like forever for him to walk there. He saw groupies everywhere. Some he recognized, most he didn't. They had all heard the rumours. They had all heard what a casanova Scott was. Except for last night. He just simply hadn't had the energy last night. Not even for flirting with them. Not even for a quick drink. He had just seemed to disappear. Scott tried to remember where he had been but all of last night's thoughts and memories and visions and images were slowly becoming a blur, a mix of faces and screams and blood....

Up the few steps. Put the vodka down on the drum platform. Walk to the mic. Shout something incomprehensible. Scott knew the routine well. He had done it many many nights before this and had always thought that he would go on doing it forever. Maybe not. Maybe the music had just become too powerful. Too controlling. Too....no, he had to stop thinking about it. The first chord. What was it? A? C minor? His mind was blank. Scott moved confidently across the stage, inside panicking. Without the first chord he couldn't find the power, he couldn't control, he couldn't. E minor. That was the first chord. It was struck and instantly the whole building erupted. Sound burned in his ears. The amps were turned up so high he couldn't distinguish the drums from the guitars. The first vocal line was coming up. Coming. Closer. Closer. What was this he was covered in? Blood? Scott looked across the stage at where a stage diver had been, his clothes left in one place, his body in a million. It was happening again. Last night was re-enacting itself. He looked out into the audience. Blood. Everywhere. Across the floor, across the walls, across the people still left standing. Across the bodies lying on the floor.

Scott knew he had to stop the music. He had to stop it. Too many people were dying. He had never meant this to happen. The music was taking over, it was getting too powerful, too controlling. He had to stop it. But his hands weren't under his control any more. They were just playing and playing and playing and he couldn't do anything about it. They were his hands, his tattoos, but they weren't in his command any more. They were just playing and playing, banging out music he had never heard before, and the rest of the band were just following him, controlled by the music too.

Then Scott knew it was too late. He couldn't stop it. He felt the heat boil up inside him and he knew the music had taken over. Completely. Soon there wouldn't be any more music. Scott wondered if it was better that way. Less people would die. The heat was rising. Extraneous heat. Stronger heat than Scott had ever felt in his life. It rose through him slowly, from his feet, up his legs, round his pelvis, up his back, across his shoulders, up his neck, through his head, blurring his vision. It was about to happen and yet he felt strangely turned on by this sensation. Overwhelming pain and yet sensual. He wanted the feeling to last forever but it was too fast. It was about to happen. He closed his eyes, still playing the fast, uncontrollable guitar line and waited. He knew it was going to happen. He wished it would hurry now, end his waiting. He felt his body swell and then it happened....

The guitar had continued playing, no-one knew how, until the time the gig had supposed to have ended. When the police had gone in to see the damage, after eventually managing to break down the door, all they found was the bloody mass of bodies of the crowd, of the groupies, of the band's management and the band themselves. Of Scott, they only found little pieces: his hand next to the drum kit, his leg half way into the audience. The guitar lay unwanted on the stage, still glistening eerily in the half lit hall. It was like it was laughing at them. The music had taken over. It had.

The detective in charge of the case had always been fond of guitars and personally had loved Scott's music. While the rest of his men went to check out the situation back stage, he slipped on the black guitar. It was still warm. Not a spot of blood on it. It was beautiful, sleek, sexy. A guitar with power. He didn't realize how much power, however, until he struck the first chord and heard the explosions and screams from his men and saw the souls of the massacred audience rise up and dance around him as he played uncontrollably with fingers that weren't his own. The music would always take over. There would always be someone there to play and, as long as there was, the music would always control. Always. Always....




Story written and ©2000 - Karen Anderson