A/N: Took a little longer to write this chapter, but it's kind of longer than the others too, forgive me! Enjoy.

High Tension: Who am I really?

Chapter 10

Blood

Danny got home shortly after he and Tucker met. He couldn't believe he had actually tried to lie to him. Tucker knew him in and out; they'd been best friends since he could even remember. Not to mention he was a terrible liar to begin with. He couldn't even remember how many times he tried to get away with, "I can explain!" without actually having any clue how to explain.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. He stared at the picture of him, Sam, and Tucker. He had left it lying on his desk the night before. A small frown played on his lips as he remembered back to last night. Not even ten minutes had passed after he hung up the phone before he just couldn't take it anymore. Something inside him just couldn't help feeling that Sam was in desperate of help, help from him. But then again, maybe that was just his hero complex acting up.

Then again, maybe it was just his heart.

"I was right, though," he murmured to himself, staring at the picture. He picked it up and leaned it against the desk lamp in front of him. The smiling faces looked back him. Even though Sam told him not to worry and even though she did look better when she left, there was still something odd. When he'd gone to go see her last night, he could swear she was crying. He had seen that guy, whoever he was, trying to pull fast one on her. He couldn't make out much, but it didn't look good at all. It didn't look like she wanted to...

But then, what if he WAS wrong? Then maybe they were toying around that night and Danny just misinterpreted the situation... After all, her parents must have been nearby that late at night. If she had just screamed, they'd be there in a heartbeat. Sam could have done something. Unless...

"Unless he's got something over her," he muttered. Yes! That must be it! It must be! It would explain everything! Sam was constantly worrying about him whenever he had to go fight off some ghost. That same kind of worry could be inerepreted many ways. For him, she's always on his case, helping him out when he really couldn't "explain" and watching his back. But let's say if it was up to her whether or not someone got hurt. She knew she couldn't control Danny; there's that hero complex, but what if it was she who was the hero this time? Surely, if that guy were threatening her somehow, maybe with something against him or her family, or anyone, really, Sam would take the punch. She was strong that way. "Strong..."

Danny stood and flopped onto his bed, leaving the photo behind. He curled up into a ball and lay there, motionless. If that guy really was threatening her somehow, how could Danny help her if she wouldn't even talk to him? She had been avoiding him for the past few days, him and Tucker. She was strong, but surely she knew that she was only human. No human could take so much from another... Not even Sam. And by the way her mood kept shifting, it was taking a toll on her.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, and placed the back of his hand over his eyes. He sighed.

The way she had looked at him in the hall at school. Those tears... He didn't know what, but something about her expression seemed right. It wasn't the expression of the Sam that had been avoiding him. It was the expression of the happy, goth, recyclo-vegetarian girl that he knew and loved.

Loved.

"How," he whispered, "how can I say that if I don't even know where to begin to help her..." He curled his free hand into a fist and slammed it onto his bed.

If he could just find out what it was! What it was that was keeping Sam quiet!

"But how...?"

Manson Residence.

"Grandma? What happened?" Sam closed the door slowly and inched into the room where her mother was knelt before her grandmother. The orange haired woman was gripping something red and white on her grandmother's lap. Sam frowned, unable to tell what it was. Surely it was she who had screamed, not her grandmother. But then why was she giving Grandma Whoopi such a worried look.

"Mom," Sam called. "What happened?" She was still closer to the door than to them. Mrs. Manso looked up, as did Grandma Whoopi. "Sam..." whispered Whoopi, her voice weak, not her usual boistrous, powerful voice. She tried to smile, but it quickly vanished.

"Samantha!" the younger woman cried. Tears had filled her eyes by then. A pouty lower lip made its way into her expression; it trembled. "Samantha, how could you...!"

Sam's forehead wrinkled. What? From off to the side of the overly large livingroom, two men came bounding into the scene, followed by a little woman. Mr. Manson held a white box with a red cross on it's top and Mr. Vick held a brown bottle. Mrs. Vick was holding a gauze. "We hope this is enough..." the little woman mumbled, worry clear in her voice.

"How bad is it, mother?" Mr. Manson asked, kneeling down next to the wheelchair.

Suddenly the pieces began to fall into place. The white and red cloth around her grandmother's hands, which rested on her lap. The gauze, the peroxide, the first-aid kit. Something had hurt her grandmother, and she was being blamed for it!

"will someone tell me what happened here?" she cried, rushing now to her grandmother's side. Though faced with much resistance from her mother, Sam managed to lift the bloody cloth from her grandmother's hand. She gasped, dropping it to the ground and feeling her stomach lurch again. Grandmother Whoopi's right hand was coated in a red glaze. Her left hand held onto the right one's wrist tightly, a feeble attempt to stop the bleeding without putting direct pressure onto the wound. The wound which appeared to be a deep cut into the center of her palm. A wound so clean, it almsot seemed like it had come from-

"Your knife," her mother pronounced slowly, a dark undertoned outlined the words. "The one mother bought you...for your 11th birthday, remember?"

Sam looked at the wound carefully. Yes, it was clean enough to have been fron a knife. She looked up at her grandmother's weary face. Sam had been wanting that little, antique dagger for a long time. She was to turn 11 and was at the peek of her goth stage when she fell deeply in love with the intricate carvings on the daggers handle. She had pleaded with ehr parents to buy it for her birthday, but they were relentless. Still, she hoped that maybe they would change their mind in time. Much to her despair, they didn't. Instead, she received countless dresses and jewelry pieces, items that she would never wear. To her surprise, however, by the time she had reached her bedroom in the evening, a small black satin box was there to greet her, top by a big purple bow. She had been hesitant at first, unsure of what it could be. She knew it wasn't from her parents, they would never endorse her favorite color so plainly. But if not them, then who?

A note scribbled in fancy lettering answered that question. In secret her grandmother had asked the butler to do a bit of shopping for her. She told him the exact address of the little antiue shop and where the display case was. As a reward, she'd gladly be nicer to him for as long as he wanted if he could keep it a secret. Of course, he was more than happy to oblige though he knew all too well that she would still bat his hands away whenever he would attempt to pull a chair out for her.

So that was it. The knife had been a secret between only she and her grandmother. The knife's very whereabouts was Sam's secret alone. So she was still left with one big blank. What happened?

"But how?" Sam murmured and scooted over as Jean knelt down beside her and began to clean the wound and dress it.

"I'm not sure," her grandmother replied, giving Sam a very sorrowful, almsot sorriful, expression; as if this had been her own fault, not Sam's. "I was eating lunch here, watching the telly and, well, when I try to get back onto my wheelchair and go into the kitchen, there it-" she flinched. Jean muttered an apology - "there it was lodged right in the spot." Sam wasn't sure where the "spot" was, but she could pretty much imagine how the story went.

"It's not bad," Jean said, patting her mother-in-law-to-be's knee. "It wasn't very deep, but we should probably go get some stitches done." Whoopi nodded slowly.

"I'll get the car!" Mr. Manson cried, his voice slightly cracking. He was something of a wuss when it came to blood, Sam had learned long before.

"I'll call the hospital and let them know we're coming," John Vick added, a little more calm.

Sam stood as Jean started to wheel her grandmother away into the kitchen. "Here," she heard a voice say. She turned, coming face to face with her mother. She stare dinto her eyes for a second, still a little bewildered. Her eyes were cold, unfeeling, not really looking at her but rather trying to turn away more than anything. but knowing her, Sam thought to herself, she wouldn't dare be the first to walk away. between two finegrs she held out the blood tainted dagger. "Take this thing and get rid of it, I don't ever want to see it ever again. I have no clue why mother would even purchase such a dreadful thing, especially for you." Sam cringed at the emphasis, but took the blade all the same. the bloody blade felt cold in her hands, like ice. It spilled itno the designs carved into the handle, making them look deranged and shiny in the light.

"But..." Sam murmured. She looked back up at her mother's face, surprised to see her weeping now. "Mom, I..." She looked back down at her hands. "I didn't do it..."

Her mother sniffled and, with a handkerchief she'd taken from a pocket in her orangey dress, wiped the tears away. "We'll talk about it later."

"But mom...!"

"Dear, the car is ready!" shouted Mr. Manson from outside. Mrs. Manson turned in the direction of her husband's voice, completely ignoring the raven-haired girl next to her.

"Mom," Sam tried again, pleading.

"Get rid of it," was all her mother said, already having turned her back on the teen. With that out of the way, she grabbed her bag from the couch and rushed out the door. Within seconds, the car's quiet hum had grown distant enough to be virutally gone.

Sam blinked, fully realizing that they had really left. She could feel her eyes begin to fill with tears. It wasn't her fault! She still didn't even fully understand what was going on. She hadn't even been home all day! The only other person who was...

That was it. Her stomach almost lurched her forward, throwing her off balance. She managed to catch herself, though she came close to stabbing herself in the process. The knife fell from her hands as she clutched her abdomen, trying to keep what little she had eaten throughout the day down. She put a hand over her mouth and looked around the room quickly. There wasn't a single sound, not a mouse a cricket or even a car pulling into the driveway next door. Nothing.

Maybe he wasn't here...

Another escape attempt by her lunch reminded her of the where the nearest bathroom was.

Unfortunately, it was upstairs.

And she had to cross in front of his door to get there.

She swallowed hard and took a deep breath, regaining enough composure to be able to walk to the bottomost step of the staircase that wound up. She wiped some of the still warm tears from her eyes and stared at the top for a little while.

Blood from the knife had stained her hands and now covered a bit of her face. The iron smell forced itself into her nose and made her dizzy.

I can do this...

She took the first step.

He's not here...

She took five more steps.

He would have been here by now, gloating or something...

She was almost at the top.

Or, he would have at least been here to pretend to be worried...

By now she was able to look down the hall, dimly lit by the embedded light sin the ceiling. All the doors down the hall were closed. She almost turned tail and climbed back down the stairs, but her stomach was still turning from the added smell of blood. If she didn't get to the toilet fast, her mother would have more to complain about than just bloodstains on the carpet.

More than me trying to hurt Grandma...

She closed her eyes, trying to fight back more tears. They weren't helping the situtation any further.

But she couldn't help it. She knew what her mother thought of her, as a troubled teen and rebellious, on top of it, but capable of hurting her own grandmother? Did she really think Sam would sink that low as to hurt the one family member that truly understood her? How could she even imagine it? So what if it was her knife. They had let practical strangers into their home! One of which, mind you, was almost a self-proclaimed serial killer...

But how would they know? Only she did...

She slammed her hand into the wall and felt like bashing her head agaisnt it too, but figured the pain in her stomach and the unnerving vertigo was enough discomfort for now. She made her way to the end of the hall and turned the knob of the white bathroom door. She made it just in time.

Sam had just knelt down and lifted the seat when her stomach decided enough was enough and spilled what foul liquids it had been storing. The bile stuck to the inside of her throat, burning as it exited. Tears burned in her eyes and for a moment she couldn't breathe.

Is this what dying must feel like? Uncontrollable pressure, your body trying with every fibre of its being to take just one last breath only to be crashed into again and again...

What seemed like an eternity later, her stomach was finally satisfied. All of Sam's energy had been swept out along with her poor breakfast. She let herself fall back onto the cold linoleum floor. The cool tiles felt lovely through her sweat soaked shirt. She closed her eyes, wiping her mouth clean of the foul liquids, and took a deep breath, trying to get her heart back into a normal rhythm. If Juan really was home, he would have been there by now, especially with all the adults gone.

Sigh.

She knew it must have been him who placed the knife in Granny's wheelchair. Who else could it have been? He must have gone through her room and found the knife, still in the same box with the little note and her grandmother's writing. He had put two and two together and planned to use this little secret to his advantage. Now not only did her mom think she was a devil's child and wouldn't listen even if Sam tried to explain, it was proof that he meant business and that alone struck enough fear into her heart to keep her form even trying.

And in order to get back on her mom's good side, she needed to play nice with Juan.

Slowly, Sam sat up, leaning back on her arms as she contemplated this. Play nice... and let him murder...

"Why me?" she whimpered, feeling tears well up in her eyes again, but shhe held them back. Sniffling she took another deep breath and pulled her fet under her, standing up. Every step was a fight with her fatigue, but maybe a hot shower would help her think a little straighter.

She wandered into her room, grabbed some stuff, and made her way back to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

E/N: And there it is. I kind of liked this chapter, but I'm also looking forward to the next one. Let's see if I can make this work! Here goes!