Incarceration

Chapter Six

The next day arrives quickly, and I awake to the unfortunate sound of the breakfast bell ringing loudly throughout Ranum. I'm still in bed when my door swings insensitively open, displaying my frazzled and tired self to the rest of the prison. Groaning, I drag myself up and walk sleepily into the hallway, crowding into line with the other convicts for breakfast.

It was a privilege to have breakfast, lunch, and dinner out of our cells, something only the Honor Hall gets. But walking down the seemingly endless hallway, I imagine how nice it would be to have breakfast in bed one day.

Everyone ahead of me looks like zombies—blood-encrusted and horribly sleep-deprived. We file slowly into the cafeteria where we sit and eat. Hardly anyone talks, either too tired or depressed. Sitting silent. Contemplating the torturous day ahead of us.

The guards have informed me that my game slot will be after breakfast every day until the end of my sentence. So as soon as the bell rings to dismiss us, I leave the bulk of the comatose zombies behind.

Once I am back in the game room, the wide doors are shut tightly and I am now alone in the dark, black box. Slowly the MGP appears in the window, flicking the lights on and sitting down comfortably in front of monitors. Our eyes meet for only a millisecond. I look for remorse but find none.

White pixels flutter down from the sky and I begin where I last left off—with the snowy, white mountains towering over me, and the lion dead at my feet.

Automatically, I move my head to take in my surroundings. Then I begin running. The snow pounds into hard shapes below my feet and the great mountains tower above me.

Soon the snow unnaturally fades away and I come to the edge of a grassy field. I pause for a moment and gratefully take the time to breathe—closing my eyes and smelling the fresh air. Tall grass grows up to my waist and waves invitingly in the wind. Suddenly, I'm forced forward again and a jolt of pain spirals up my legs. I wince. Looking down, I realize the blades of grass have slashed at my calves. Each piece slices a small, thin cut, and by the time I reach the middle of the field, my whole lower half is dripping wet and sticky. I keep running through the blades and finally make it out of the field. My body aches from running and stings from being sliced open in hundreds of places. Glancing down, I see that my black prison uniform has ripped open and the fabric is drenched in blood. The pain in my legs is overwhelming, and I desperately want to scream out.

Suddenly, the logout screen appears in front of me. Gladly, I sign out and watch as the world around me shatters into pixels and then disappears into thin air. The pain is unbearable. I let out another scream and begin to cry. As I lie on the floor hyperventilating, the player box lights shut off and the room goes pitch black.

I'm leaning against an enormous apple tree. A hat rests on my face, blocking it from the sun, while the yellow-green leaves and strong, sturdy branches shade the rest of my body.

I close my eyes, relaxed and at peace. There is nothing I need to do. There is no obligation hovering over my head. There is no responsibility. There is only me, my body under this tree with the hat on my face. I focus on my breathing, how deep it is, how fast, how slow. The smell. I breathe in the scent of the sweetest apples. Peace.

Thump!

Just then, something drops from the top of the tree and hits me on the shoulder. I take my hat off and peer at the apple on the ground. It's perfectly red and perfectly shaped, not a bruise or dent visible. Yes.

I eagerly grab it and, without hesitation, bite into it, expecting the crisp, sweet juice to dribble over my chin and seep down my throat on the hot summer day. But as soon as I bite into the fruit, the taste of blood oozes into my mouth.

I cough, spitting out pools of blood, but the taste lingers. Looking down at the apple, I watch as it rots before my eyes, slowly melting into a red sludge between my fingers.

There's someone in the distance shouting my name, but there's nothing I can do to answer. Completely mute, I'm suffocating on the blood melting down my throat.

"Harriet!"

I wake up and jolt to a sitting position. Sweating and panting, I realize someone has gloved hands firmly on my shoulders and is shaking me.

Somehow I manage to let out two words to get Grayson to stop, "I'm up!" I cough. I feel nauseous and I cover my mouth, but it's no use because I lean forward and puke over the side of the bed.

Instantly Grayson stops shaking me and removes his hands from my shoulders.

"Damn it, what happened to you, Harriet? You've only been playing for two days. I was patrolling the hallway, and I heard screaming, so I came to see what was going on. You were in your bed rolling around yelling things. You sounded like someone was trying to murder you with an ax or something." I can see the concern growing in his eyes.

For the first time since I had woken up, I realize that I am back in my cell. I wipe a strand of hair, damp with sweat, out of my face and let out a forced laugh. "It was just a nightmare," I say, trying to make myself appear casual even though my stomach was still coiled in tight knots.

"Harriet, we grew up together," Grayson reminds me. "I know when you're lying. What did you dream about?"

"Nothing," I insist. Grayson always knows when to stop pushing.
"All right," he says, conceding but not without a knowing glance. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small pack of cigarettes and hands them to me. "Tomorrow's Sunday," he says as he gets up to leave. I take them gratefully, then shout at his turned back.

"Wait! Grayson?" I catch him off guard and he turns back to me.

"Yeah?"

"You have to keep going. Without me, I mean."

"No," he says firmly. Then adding more seriously, "We can't talk about this here."

"It's what Dad wanted," I remind him. He's already in the hallway and closing the door to my cell before he responds.

"The plan killed Dad and it's what's going to kill you, too."

His words echo in the room as the door closes gently behind him. I watch him go and then collapse back onto the bed. I'll do it myself. Slowly I drift back to sleep, and when I awake the next morning, I can't remember what I had dreamed.