Page 7 of Collared

“Run!” A pair of hands shove the bushes wildly aside and the appearing participant almost slams into me in his haste to get away. The wild gaze in his eyes flicker, but I catch it nevertheless, because he pushes me aside in an attempt to escape. Turning over his shoulder, he gestures wildly with his arm.

“He’s coming! Move!” Not waiting for me, he continues running, the soles of his shoes making a crunching sound on the trail ahead of us until his fading figure is nothing more than a darkening shadow in the faint light.

“Fuck them all. Screw your pride and stop this madness,” I mutter to myself. Let's go home.

Suddenly, a horse emerges through the glooming dark. My eyes bulge in their sockets, because what the fuck’s an actual horse doing here at this time of night? It’s dark-coloured, like its rider, who’s dressed in a black cloak, with dark boots and a glittering bronze mask. Appearing out of the obscurity, my eyes zoom in on the tool he’s holding. It has three, long, slender ropes that are attached to a ball. He swings it wildly as he lets out another unhinged howl.

“No,” I choke. “This, this…” And for the second time in less than half an hour, I turn and run. Only this time I’m hunted down by a horse and its crazed rider.

Tick tick tick.

Time moves swiftly, but I have lost my way.

“What the hell is this game they’re playing?” I wheeze out of breath, because I can feel the nightmare behind me unfolding like a hazard, clean and fatal. Because the horse is getting closer.

I need to get off the path. Taking a sudden turn, I lose my balance and hit a tree. Wincing at the instant sting on my shoulder and chest, I don't miss how the horse is approaching faster, making panic rise until it bubbles right on the surface. Which is ridiculous, because this is just some frat game, it’s not real, and it sure as fuck isn’t funny anymore…I should just raise my hands and surrender. Fuck my pride.

I should.

Instead I throw myself in the bushes and hide flat on my stomach, my head ducked and my breathing raspy and distorted, ignoring the pain. And I wait. And watch.

I thought he would have disappeared by now, but to my utter surprise, the other participant hasn’t left the sand path yet. I don’t know what he’s waiting for, but he’s definitely too late now to avoid the horse and its rider who’s now swinging the ropes, releasing that ball and, oh god…he’s going to…

No! The silent scream reverberates through my mind, but he doesn’t hear me, the word never leaving my throat. Instead he watches over his shoulder at the exact moment the ball hits him square in his back. He tumbles forward with a cry and I dip my gaze for a beat, before I force my eyes to drag back up and see this for what it is.

“It’s a game,” I mumble. It's got to fucking be, but it doesn’t fucking feel like a game. Further down the trail, the rider has now dismounted the horse and is looming over the fallen participant.

“Je suis désolé,” I mumble into the cool air to the guy I just met, the guy whose face I never saw.

I’m sorry.

Lingering in the grass, I try to ignore the whimpering sounds coming from the fallen guy further down the path, and wait for them to diminish, before I finally pick up my courage and strength, and get up. When I make it to the end of the path, I turn one final time over my shoulder and gaze toward the barely lit trail. They’re gone.

Eliminated.

I wonder where the others are. My phone indicates it’s now past half twelve in the morning. Ignoring the childish urge to phone Mamie, I push it back in my pocket.

One hour and twenty minutes left before this game is finished. That’s roughly seventy five minutes. 4500 seconds.

I pick up my jogging pace once more and run further until the trail leaves me on a dead end with two sides to go. Left or right.

I once read in this study book that right-handed people tend to choose the right side unconsciously. It only takes me two puffs of air to go left. Fuck science.

There are even less lights here to guide me along. The path is more uneven too, and I have to catch my balance after falling over yet another stone or thick branch. A few times I swear I can hear the sound of a horse whinny. I’m losing my fucking mind. I don’t know where I’m going anymore.

Tick tick tick.

“Seventy five, seventy four, seventy three—” I whisper to myself. The material of my cotton school pants feels rigid over my heating skin, creating the first layer of sweat on my legs. My forehead and cheeks feel hot and clammy, and I want to take my phone back out and use my flashlight instead, but I’m afraid the brightness will draw too much attention, which is entirely fucking ridiculous.

I come to a stuttering halt.

That’s right. That is ridiculous.

What if no one else is around here? I turn my head to inspect the different corners of the dark woods. Apart from the gentle breeze rustling through the leaves, there’s nothing here. No one.

I think of the painting above Papi’s chair back home, of how idyllic the castle looks like painted in oil paint.

Could this all be a prank?

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