Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
The lights in our cell go out, plunging the room into darkness.
Soon, my eyes adjust to the slight sliver of light coming from under the door, and I stare at the floor.
There’s a crack in the cement that runs a jagged path to the middle of the floor.
Then it just…ends. It’s a very real-looking floor.
Why would I dream up that detail? In fact, everything feels a little too real.
I’m still cold, a bone-deep cold that feels a lot like fear.
It makes me shake, which makes the tag in my ear shift, shooting throbbing pain straight up the side of my skull.
This can’t be real, though. It’s too…crazy. It has to be a dream.
Only, it doesn’t feel like one.
Could I be having a psychotic break? Girlbossed my trauma too hard, and the stress just tipped me over the edge?
I’m between therapists right now. Why the fuck am I between therapists right now?
I hear voices on the other side of the door. A lot of them.
As soon as the door opens, the lights turn on again, blinding me.
“Fucking listen, or you’ll be tased.”
I blink as guards pour into the room, armed with cattle prods and riot gear. Their faces are covered, and they’re wearing thick armor. The men around me start shouting, but Seven and the man who attacked me stay quiet.
The guards start untying the men closest to the door. When they stand, shaky and unsteady, the guards jab them with the cattle prods to get them outside.
“You have twelve hours,” one of the guards says. “There are backpacks in the hall. Game starts at six, ends at ten. If you’re anywhere near the villa, you’re free game. Survive till the end, and you’ll live. Good luck.” His voice sounds bored.
Backpacks? I wait, my body tense. What are all these instructions? Survive, and you’ll live?
This can’t be real. Am I at home, thinking my apartment has turned into a basement? Are these people trying to check on me?
One by one, the other men are released.
Next to me, Seven stands. “Keep your head down, Fourteen.”
Fourteen? Before I can process that, he’s darting for the door.
I struggle to free myself. Seven can’t leave me here. He can’t. He’s the nicest hallucination, and I can’t lose that. Adrenaline mixes with anger. How dare he leave?
When the guards get to me, the one on the right leers, but the guy cutting me free gives me a pitying look. “Whose bad side you get on, sweetheart?”
As soon as I’m free, I bolt. My legs work this time, and I run as fast as I fucking can, leaving the fuzzy grip of the dream behind.
The outside light is blindingly bright, and I shield my eyes as soon as I get outside, shooting pain gripping the backs of my eyes.
I’m slammed with the sound of tropical birds, and I squint, my vision still painful.
I see dazzling sand and bright water ahead—a beach.
I turn. Tall trees grow out of a mountainous landscape. It looks…tropical.
Something slams into my leg. I stumble back, away from the object that falls to the ground.
“That’s the only thing I can do for you.”
I glance up to see that Seven has thrown something at me. A backpack. He’s shouldering his own. “Don’t follow me.” Then, he disappears into the forest.
For a second, I’m stuck staring at him.
Then, another man emerges from the basement. He locks gazes with me, then glances at the backpack at my feet. I see the thought enter his head, and as it does, I realize that he’s going to try to take it from me. The one thing my helpful hallucination wants me to have.
Suddenly, the rest of the world fades out, and that backpack is the only thing I can see.
Snatching it up, I throw it on while running in the opposite direction from the building we started in.
I’m not even sure where I’m going until the brush hits me in the face.
Old, tall trees tower up around me, and bushes grab at my blouse.
I don’t know where I’m going. All I know is I need to get away from anyone else.
My heart races, and I feel like I’ve lost control of my body. It’s running on autopilot, terrified.
The terror isn’t new for dreams. What is new is the pain—the bushes smacking my face and the throbbing in my ear.
And the more I run, not hearing anyone pursue, the more sticks grab at me, scraping me and ripping at my clothes.
It all feels so real. The brain does amazing things when it’s traumatized. Fear is one hell of a drug.
I slow my running, chest and head aching.
That’s it. I’ve lost it. Things have never been right in my brain. I slow even more, latching onto the idea. I used to feel crazy, until I got diagnosed with depression, anxiety, PTSD, and PMDD. But now maybe I’ve tipped over the grippy-sock threshold.
I try as hard as I can to catch my breath.
Am I running through the woods because some hallucination said I had to survive till the end of some game to live? No. I’m having an episode. I’ve checked another unknown mental health box. That’s all this is. Psychosis. There’s an explanation because this is not happening.
It can’t be.