Ross Huron's Worst Fear

Apparently my first chapter is good.

Ross Huron’s Worst Fear
September 4th, 2048, 6 P M

The glass is broken; its pieces lie open the floor next to him. His arm is bleeding, and before you think anything, it is not a self-inflicted wound.

Blood flows out of his arm and onto the floor as he swears violently and fluently. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he picks up the pieces of shattered glass and throws them desperatley aside. His face contorts with pain even over this simple task that costs him.

"Blood." A whisper, no source known, echoes reverently around the room. "Pain." The word echoes. It is ethereal, even, and he doubts he heard it at all until the voice continues. "Blood." But it is not one voice - - "Pain." --- it cannot be just one voice -- "Blood." -- it is many -- "Pain." -- so many voices -- "Blood." -- a thousand whispers -- "Pain." -- echoing upon his ears -- "Blood." --- everything's getting blurrier in his line of sight -- "Pain." A thousand words. "Blood." A thousand whispers. "Pain." Echoing. "Blood." Ethereal. "Pain." Eternal. "Blood." A thousand stabs -- "Pain." -- of internal pain -- "Blood." it is all in your head -- "Pain." -- none of this is real -- "Blood." -- it is all in your head -- "Pain." --- none of it is real -- "Blood." -- nothing -- "Pain." -- none of it is real -- "Blood." But there's nothing to be gained in telling himself it isn't real, even if it is not. "Pain." He can still feel it -- "Blood." -- the pain in his arm -- "Pain." -- still feel the blood -- "Blood." -- trickling down his fingers -- "Pain." He hates blood, and he turns away from the sight of it as he retches emptily onto the floor. "Blood." it is costing him too much -- "Pain." -- he's not going to be able to stand it much longer -- "Blood." that is all he can handle, and his knees buckle quietly, as he collapses onto the floor, exhausted by his own futile struggling. His flesh, his very skin, breaks as hit touches a thousand pieces of tiny, shattered glass. But he does not feel it; his own pain is unknown to him. He's gone, lost in a web of blackness that is unlike anything he's ever cared to experience before.

And a thousand whispers still echo soundlessly around the tiny room. "Blood. Pain. Blood. Pain. Blood. Pain." Eternity .. eternal pain. "Blood." The thing you're most afraid of. "Pain." The thing that hurts you the most.

And to think; he was only fourteen before the Gods discovered him; those who had risen to power so long ago and would do anything to keep it now. Before the Gods discovered him, though they were still mortal like himself.

Before the Gods captured them for their own cruel game.

They call it the Gods' Game.

His name was Ross Huron.

And to think; he was only fourteen.

Author's Note

As on WW, I say: Yes, this is what I wrote for NaNoWriMo. I'm going to wisely leave out the dream sequences and flashbacks.
Feedback, or I shall enlist my army of soggy cornflakes again.