Page 4 of The Game

It is a mockery of innocence, childhood, memories of elephants and cotton candy and trapeze flyers. It is the hedonistic representation of utter anarchy, presented in such a way that somehow lessens and dehumanizes the participants more than anyone could ever think.

And at the top of this? The freak who calls himself the Circus Master?

None other than my math teacher, Mr. Bird. But the worst of it?

He’s my grandfather.

He nods to the chess board.

“Up for a game, dear?”

I know better than to deny him, and as my eyes flick to Daniel’s shit-eating-grin, my stomach further sinks. Daniel will beat me in a few moves as usual. Mr. Bird will stand and stretch and check his watch, pretending he has to be home before his big day of teaching tomorrow, his most favorite hunting ground. And then I’ll stand, and he’ll press his palm to the back of my head, smoothing down my hair as I sink to my knees before his son.

The sound of his retreat will reverberate in my ears, along with the soft click of the door. Daniel’s pale hands will unzip his jeans, and he’ll fist his small, eager cock. And when he finishes in my throat, he’ll lean down and say what he does every time:

“That’s for my brother, fucking cunt. Tell those cocksuckers they trained you well.”

I’ll crumble alone on the floor as tears blur the vision of my butterfly tattoo, my graduation gift from Tristan. I will smile despite my sorrow, for every second I spent with them somehow makes me carry on. I’ll muster my strength and stand and remember the reason I am here, the only thing that prevents me from ending it all to escape this fate:

If I leave, they die.

And I will allow my body to be irreparably ruined before I let anyone touch them.

CHAPTER3

Tristan

October, 2022

My eyes stay locked on the shadowy figure near the corner. From my post, I can see the shift of his beady little eyes. He sways on his feet at the slightest breeze, drunk or high, I don’t fucking care to find out. His long, black trench coat looks mottled and mildewy, even from this distance. Rain tamps down the stench of Seattle as best it can, but the rain here will never smell like home. Or like Alice’s hair after the thunderstorm that one night.

My fist clenches so hard my knuckles crack, but I am pulled from my fury when the little snake makes his move. The unwitting woman passes by, headphones stuffed into tiny ears, on an evening jog. He’s quicker than I give him credit for, striking out to snatch her with surprising efficiency. The breeze rises and I shove my hands nonchalantly into my jeans pockets as I jog across the street when the traffic breaks.

Into the alley he drags her, his hand securely over her mouth as she twists and thrashes and makes all the wrong moves. Her heart rate is probably climbing to a dangerous level, and the scuffle of her tennis shoes against wet, gravelly asphalt bounces off the brick walls encasing them. Turning the corner, the man’s face jerks in my direction. His eyes widen into that look I love so much. It’s when the hunter realizes they are being hunted.

He’s just as quick to let her go, giving her a slight shove toward me as he holds his palms up. Seems the rumors have spread even further, but I do not mind. Makes my fun last a little longer when they give up so easily.

The woman locks eyes with me and rushes forward, stumbling into my arms, nails biting through my jacket. With a whimper, she pulls away, scrambling to the mouth of the alley. She’s heard the rumors too, then. Smart girl, to not wait around and witness what becomes of rapists.

It’s a Tuesday, which means the bars aren’t as packed, which means I can’t play with my favorite frat boy prey. It’s pissing me off. So I grin as I crack my knuckles and saunter forward, nodding to the trembling little creep.

“Which one was she,podonok?”

He stumbles back, lips mumbling ceaselessly. I snort. He’s fucking praying a Hail Mary.

“You think the Mother of Christ will save a man who rapes women? Now you’re really pissing me the fuck off,” I growl. The edges of my vision blacken as I snap, my strength inhuman and unnatural, fueled even more so by my pent up rage of losing Alice, of those fucking words playing over and over in my mind.

You took advantage of me being young. You made me think I had no other option. I didn’t know any better, and you used me.

But ah, the worst.

I never really loved you.

By the time I come-to, I’ve stabbed the fucker in his gut, his warm blood gushing around my hand as he wails.

“Shut the fuck up,” I hiss, ripping the knife out before I smash my fist into his cheek. His groan and the way he collapses into a pitiful pile makes me think I’ve broken his jaw. Raising my boot, I tuck it under his chin as he blubbers and cries.

“We’re gonna play a game. It’s called tell me how many women you’ve assaulted and killed, and that’s how many toes and fingers I’ll chop off.”

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