Anya (6)

It had been a week since I had returned, and still no sign of the other players. I had looked for any police records of murder, or random disappearances, but nothing came up. I knew that there were at least 9 players left. Because there were 13 players to begin with, minus the 3 that me and Flynn had killed. So why couldn’t I find any? There had to be some way for me to find them.

They were good at hiding, I mean, they had to. They were far better than I was back then. They knew how to survive in the shadows, unlike myself.

On Monday of the second week, I heard something from the workers in the cafeteria as I ate my food. They gossiped every morning, about what they thought of the people here, and how they felt about whatever was big on television. That day though, I took an interest in their idle gossip. It was for they were gossiping about a suspicious man who came in about a day after I did, they said he came in looking completely dirty,full of muck and dirt. Just  like he had been traveling for a long time. They said he kept mumbling about finding someone, over and over, he kept repeating that he had to find someone. This led me to believe that there was a player held up in this hotel.

It took the rest of the week for me to get chummy with the cooks. They were really defensive, bitchy women. I did eventually become their "friend", and I heard that this suspicious character lived in the room right next to mine. I wanted to go and investigate, but I did not know if that was a smart idea. For he might be here looking for me. If he was here looking for me, he would probably find me soon, for I have already found him.

There was one thing I was sure of, I was sure that this man was a part of the game. I hated calling this horrible state a game. It caused so much pain, but that was in fact what it was, a game. A sick twisted game that only had two outcomes, kill and live, or die.

I had only one thing to do, kill and live. Even if it wasn’t what I wanted, I had to kill. I hated to say it. I mean it tore and trashed every fiber of what was left of my soul to say. It butchered me to say it, but  killing was getting easier. It only was a small fraction of a percent easier. Only the smallest bit easier, but yet it felt like the world's difference. I could kill now without going into a complete state of panic, and that scared me. It scared me so much that it hurt worse than what I felt when I first killed. Yet, there was nothing I could do, I had to kill again. Or I would be the one to end up killed.

I had to sit and take a breath. The blood. The memory of the thick, gooey, warm blood flushed back into my mind. I could feel the warmth on my skin, the wetness. It all felt like the first time I felt it. The splatter of fresh blood on my face felt so real.

I went up to my room, and cautiously watched the room next to mine, because I knew what lurked there, and it terrified me.

I turned on the shower and let the room steam up as I undressed and entered the warm water. The water flowing over my face triggered a small day dream.

The warm water flowing from the spout turned into fresh blood. Dark and creamy running over my face, neck and torso. I opened my eyes and saw the blood, and I frantically tried to wash it away, I scrubbed and scrubbed at my flesh until i was shocked out of my dream and noticed I had scrubbed my body so hard and vigorously that I had started to bleed. My own blood rushed over my legs and down the drain. Mixing in with the clean water, turning everything a light red tint.

I turned off the water and wrapped a towel over my raw, bleeding, and bare skin. The roughness of the towel burned my freshly wounded skin. My blood soaked the towel, but I didn't pay much mind to it as I sat on my white linen sheets and ruined them, too.

I numbly watched whatever channel was on then, I have no idea what it was now.

I fell asleep there, in that blood soaked towel atop my red stained sheets, and I did not dream.

Author's Note

sorry I haven't posted in a while. I have been very busy for the holiday season.