Page 23 of The Games We Play

I can save myself, fight my own battles, and come out on top.

I’m not a pathetic girl waiting around for him to call the shots.

“Puppet?” a woman shouts over the crowd. I stay where I am, hidden.

“Puppet…” a man sings amongst the crowd.

More people join in until my name becomes a chant. The crowd is clueless about why they’re saying puppet and what it means.

But I know.

He is waiting for me. And fuck it all; I’m going to win.

Thirteen - Tess

For the first timesince he started this act of war tonight, I walk confidently to the front of the line at the asylum. With my mask lit, the workers watch as I stride past. Nobody grabs me or drags me along. This place is going to be my bitch; then I’ll find my stranger, and the tables will turn.

A girl with a padlocked metal headpiece that has a countdown clock on the side opens the door, and I step in. Screams immediately filter through the torture house. I’m forced up several flights of stairs until I get to the top floor. A woman with long, stringy hair stands with a rope around her neck in a busted windowsill. She sways slightly, and my footsteps slow to a stop as I cautiously wait for the next test.

“You’ll never make it out,” she says, her voice chipper. Not at all matching her bleak surroundings. “Nobody makes it out.” Her eyes fixate on me. She screams and falls backward. “This is where you come to die!” I rush forward and reach out to grab her, but there isn’t anyone there.

What the fuck? I lean out the window and glance down at the people waiting in line. A couple looks up and points, but there isn’t a splattered woman on the pavement. Running footsteps come from behind me, and I spin. The woman rushes me and slips the rope over my head, fighting to push me out the window.

Out the fucking window!

“Get off me, you crazy bitch!” I punch and kick for my life. Clawing and scratching, I’m not above grabbing her hair and yanking her backward at this point.

“You’re not worthy of his fixation. A stoner. An addict. You’re trash!” Her words sting, but I don’t stop my struggle. My hands search the ground around me, and I grab a loose piece of debris. I swing it hard, and wood splinters across her head, the contact vibrating up my arm. She falls back, breaking character, and cries out in pain. I don’t stay around for her to get back up.

How did she know those things about me? Did X tell her? Is that what he thinks of me? That I’m nothing? Trash? If that’s the case, then why do all of this? He’s already written me off that I’ll fail. Is this his twisted way of discarding me? To prove I’m not worthy of his fixation, just like the lunatic said? Has he paid these actors off totake care of me?

And why does that all hurt so fucking much? Everything she said was true. I drink and smoke because everything hurts too much. The truth that is my life hurts too fucking much. The pills were Dad’s way ofhelping. Even if it was from across the world, but they didn’t. Nothing really does. X is a distraction, something to look forward to and risk it all for. He made me feel something more than this empty black numbness I’ve become accustomed to.

But he didn’t want a broken toy.

I’m lost in my thoughts as I step into the next room. Two beds with restraints sit on separate sides, and I glance around, waiting for the jump scare—for the next person to fight off.

I’m tired, and the longer I think about it, the longer I question why I’m doing this. What’s the point? If he doesn’t want me, why should I be the one to prove him wrong?

I’m tackled from the back; my mask is ripped off and tossed aside. The person overpowers me and slams me onto a bed. The bars through the paper-thin mattress knock the air from my lungs. Hands grip my ankles, and I try to kick free, but straps cinch tight, keeping my legs down.

Fucking bastard!

“Let me go!” I scream and thrash.

“He said if we trap you, we keep you,” the man says, slightly out of breath.

No!

I claw at the man while he’s fighting for my wrist. His skin and blood mingle with the dirt and rocks under my nails. The back of his hand swings down, and a stinging pain radiates across my cheek, and black spots pepper my vision.

“That’ll shut you up,” his grizzly voice bellows, and I slowly turn my head back from its side. “Now sit still.”

He reaches for my wrist again, and I fight through the haze circling around my mind.

He reaches over my body for my other wrist, and I sink my thumbs into his eye socket and press as hard as I can. It squishes under my thumb, and my stomach flips at the sound. He falls back, howling in pain. I make quick work on the straps around my ankles and rush to my feet, grabbingmy discarded mask from the floor. Slipping it on, I reach for a rusted pipe in the room’s corner and raise it high over the cowering man.

“It was just part of the game. Plea—please,” he stammers, spittle flying from his lips. He’s not in shape like Ryan or my stalker. He’s soft around the middle and out of breath from the fight I put up.

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