It Will Always Be A Game

06: Lost

The beauty of darkness is how it lets you see

I stare at it. I stare at it for a whole minute. My eyes keep scanning the words repeatedly, each pass fuelling the violent thumping of my heart against my ribcage as if it might explode from my chest. My hands tremble more and more as I read it again and again. My mind drifts back to last night. I bring the letter closer.

Blood.

Again.

My blood begins to trickle over the words, the paper slowly absorbing each drop, blurring the ink into crimson smudges.

It's the same person.

I hastily fold it and slip it into my pocket before heading down the hall.
I grab my phone from the counter, glancing around to ensure no one is watching me. Or at my hand. That's covered in blood. I can't step out with these eyes gawking at me. My shirt is stained with blood. I need to change it.

I slip out of the hallway and head to the tenth level, where my clothes are kept in the room designated for staff only. No one uses it except me as it's too far. And sinister. 

I enter the elevator and click on the tenth floor, impatiently waiting. There's a woman in here with me. She brings her little girl closer when she stares at my face in fear and notices the blood stains on my white shirt. My body is trembling, and each breath feels like a struggle, so I honestly don't give a damn. She looks at me like I just killed someone. But I'm too preoccupied with clinging to the eerie letter in my pocket.

I slowly walk through the empty halls, tightly clutching the pocketknife in my pocket. I've never been consumed by such overwhelming terror before, but in this moment, everything is unsettlingly different. This floor is ideal for someone to commit a crime. Murder, even. Because people rarely come here-  it's coated in dirt, smells strange and temporarily closed. Practically a welcome sign to serial killers.

It's a mystery why they never chose to work on this floor.

I enter the staff-only room and pray to God I'm lucky enough to find a first aid kit. I hastily throw things here and there, thanking God aloud when my eyes discover the kit.

I proceed to the main restroom and turn the faucet on, letting all the blood drain into the sink. I grab a handful of tissue paper and let all the blood soak through.

I hate locked doors I hate locked rooms so much I hate it when I'm unable to control myself.

Sometimes, I'm terrified. Terrified of myself.

And I can't do anything about it.

More and more blood keeps seeping out. Red tissues had piled up all over the counter. My hands are stained crimson and covered in blood. I pull out a piece of gauze and hastily wrap it around my hand. My left-hand rises to my head, fingers gripping my hair tightly, as if trying to anchor myself in this midst of horror, desperate to seek calm.

After slipping into a black T-shirt of mine, which had been laid out weeks ago on one of the shelves, I pull the letter from my bloody pockets and tuck it into the pocket of my pants. It's all mixed with mine and someone else's blood, creating a disturbing blend. I don't understand what is more horrifying than that.

I take a plastic bag from the room and place my bloodied garments inside, ensuring to tie it tightly. Entering the elevator and pressing the ground level, I send a text to Azrah.

"Give me five minutes I'll be right there. Yousef's already waiting," Azrah replies.

I exit the elevator and into the main lobby. This area is sufficiently chilly. I feel like I stepped in an icy tundra. I spot Azrah's brother near the entrance. He's walking around hastily, talking to himself...