I: Descent

She awakes to nothing but an empty mind, awash with confusion and numb befuddlement. How did she arrive here? When? She doesn't know. Welcome, my friend, to the game.

 

 

Whispers in the dark. Surrounding, caressing, smothering in their black embrace. She lies there in the midst of endless nothing, curled in a tight ball upon the textureless no-surface. She doesn’t know who she is, what is happening to her. The voices drown out all coherent thought. She is alone within a world of oblivion, a void landscape vacant of any and all defining features. There is no horizon, no sky, no ground. There is only the girl. The girl, and the whispers.
Whether they are the voices of malevolent spirits or tortured minds she does not know; she is simply aware that they are calling, calling to her, calling her name in some archaic and long-forgotten tongue.
How did she get here? She does not know. Where is here? Of that she is also ignorant. Her mind is a blank slate, occupied by one sole remnant: a name. Her name: Ashia. She clings to it like a drowning man clutching desolately at a piece of wreckage, tossed about in a malignant sea.
The voices begin to fade, and she feels herself slipping, slipping, sliding into the white depths of nihility. She grasps feebly at this pitiful excuse for consciousness, but it is like trying to grasp a greased rope. She is slipping, slipping, slipping...

She struts along the worn and scuffed sidewalk of Darton, hands jammed into her pockets and a pair of headphones pushed into her ears. She walks in time to her music, stepping in a rhythmic pattern with the endless chorus that her iPod is pumping out. Evanescence, Rise Against, Three Days Grace- these are the notes which pour into her. Her purple tennis shoes slap against the pavement as she walks, and she leaps carelessly over a long, jagged crack, streaking across the concrete like a scar on the face of a battle-hardened warrior. Step on a crack, break your momma's back, as the saying goes. She chuckles loftily, scoffing at the foolishness of the little ditty. She remembers how her own mother used to say such inane things, smiling in the sunlight as her raven hair spilled over her shoulders, and she feels a sharp twinge of nostalgia for those long-gone days. Doesn’t matter. Those days are over.
A schoolbus, a Twinkie on wheels, rolls past her, and she pauses just long enough to tip a sarcastic salute towards the poor souls trapped within the hot, oil-perfumed confines of the metal box on such a beautiful, sunny day as today. It must be like riding in a friggin' convection oven, she thinks, and grins. No rolling yellow prison for her. She walks to school at her own pace, taking her own good time. No hurry. After all, she has a math test with Mr. Purdy first period, and she couldn't be bothered with studying for something so trivial as a simple Chapter 9 assessment.
She stops to take a quick peek into the glass display window of that new store that had just opened up. One of those little junkshops where one could procure anything from vintage thimbles to flamingo-themed sunglasses. God's Attic, the sign read. The only item on display is a delicate necklace on a silver chain, with a teardrop shaped emerald set upon a small red velvet cushion. She debates entering the shop and taking a quick look around, but decides against it. While the store does look rather intriguing, she really should be getting to school.

She has no way of knowing that if she were to enter the seemingly normal shop, her life would take a very different course from the one which destiny has decided.
She reaches an intersection and glances both ways before stepping out onto the pavement. She reaches the other side and takes a quick glance at the time on her iPod. 7:06. Now that it’s getting right down to it, that math test is seeming pretty damn appealing. More so than Frank's reaction if he gets another call about skipping, that is. She takes a quick detour down an abandoned sidestreet, tucked between a discount grocery and a little hobby shop where the school's nerdier attendees gather to play D&D on the weekends.
The alleyway seems jarringly silent after the bustling morning hubbub of downtown, and her blaring music seems only to accentuate the quietude rather than alleviate it. A big metal dumpster is leaned against the brick wall of one of the buildings, overflowing with garbage. The pavement here is littered with debris: crumpled newspaper, old candy-wrappers... there is something unsettling about the place, and she feels a slight chill settle over her heart and feels a deep urge to leave, regardless of whether it makes her late for school. Crossing the alley seems impossible- a task of which she was incapable.
She turns to leave, ready to run and not knowing why, but is interrupted by a sharp tug at her ankle. She looks down, in shock and horror, to see a disembodied arm poking out from beneath the dumpster, the bony fingers wrapped around the bottom of her pantleg. She feels a mingling of terror and disbelief rise up inside of her chest, and she knows she’s going to scream, but no sound comes out, it only catches in her throat, and suddenly she realizes she’s made her own little Niagara Falls down the side of her leg.
The arm looks as if it had been torn from a zombie in one of those George Romero flicks, with tattered skin fluttering around the bone and bits of cloth still holding onto the half-disappeared flesh. She kicks at it frantically, trying to break its death's grip, but it holds fast. The wind, which was before only a pleasant breeze, begins to pick up, tossing up the litter and dirt in an ever-growing cyclone. Her eyes are locked onto the arm, and as she watches, the limb begins to crumble into dust, becoming one with the wind, until finally it has disappeared completely, leaving her standing there, alone, paralyzed with fear and uncertainty as the wind whirls around her, faster, faster, faster still. She sees the dust that was the arm suspended in the whirlwind like a miniature sandstorm, and to her horror, the dust envelopes her, flying up her nostrils, soiling her mouth, choking her, obscuring her vision, smothering her...


She remembers this with the sudden realization of one waking up from a long, dream filled sleep- black dreams. Dreams of death and fire and bleak futures. The whispers are gone, but she almost wishes they were back. Anything would be better than this bleak, endless void, stretching out into black infinity, into who knows what eldritch depths...
The cloying silence is interrupted by an impossibly familiar sound, seeming to exist in incalculable contrast to this alien no-place. It is the ringing or her cellular phone. She fishes it out of the pocket of your jeans, amazed that she still has the thing. Her iPod and bookbag are, excuse the pun, gone with the wind.
She flips open the phone to see that she have received a new text. She looks at the letters for a long time, shining in the blackness like the beacon of a lighthouse painted against the night sky. Though short, this text seems to contain some incomprehensibly profound and horrific meaning.
There, in plain black letters, are these four words:
                                          

                                          Welcome to the Game.

 

Author's Note

This story was originally written in second person and then moved to third, so please excuse any "yous" or "yours" I may have missed. Feel free to offer any criticisms or ways I can improve.

Reviews

[Sarah J. Mendonca]

Not the biggest fan of second person. Would prefer if this shifted to first or third. I think second has restrictions of its own and most people are more experienced with the other two.

By having a relatable character in danger it makes me want to continue reading to find out what will happen to them. With second its more like describing a video game which is very difficult.

I don't understand the first part of the story. I suggest deleting it. I understand you were trying to set the tone but it doesn't go with the rest of the story.

[Mars Samuel]

It's not an idea I haven't heard before, but I like the direction you took. The only problem I had was with the flow. A lot of it is written very formally, which is great, but sometimes you use words or descriptions that stick out. (Twinkie on wheels, friggin) I was also a little confused at the end when you broke the fourth wall (excuse the pun). Unless the narrator is going to do this again (and if he/she does, sorry because I only read this one chapter), I would suggest letting "gone with the wind" sit on its own so the reader can pick up on it themslves.
Overall, it's a fantastic read, and I really enjoyed it! Please keep it up!

[Shep]

First of all I am very impressed and could fill the vibrant intensity of the story. You held me to the page from the top to the bottom. If it had errors I did not find them easily if they were there I took no noticed being trapped inside the page never wanting it to end.

The only thing I would change is More Paragraph breaks. It feels cramped as the reader, it is like we need to take a breath before take the next plunge. Now were third person is concerned I no expert as of yet, I to have this problem dealing with those dread Tenses. Everything for me gelled and was smooth. Yes I will defiantly continue on.

[Susanna F]

Ok, I'm hooked. Very interesting, so onward to the next chapter.

[Ruth]

I actually like the way this is broken up...a story to me can trail endlessely at times...and to break it up can make the reader bite into more..there are always going to be differnces of opinion this however lol
But as a whole..like it a lot :)