Writer Games: Pending Secrets

Semifinals - Take Me to the End - Shyen Ann Brooke

When Shyen Ann Brooke had first set foot into the arena, she had prepared herself for what was to come. She had prepared for muttations, hallucinations and other ingenious designs that the Gamemakers created to tear her apart from the inside out. She prepared herself for the pain, the torture, the tears that would come flowing out of her eyes. She accepted the fact that she was never going to see her beloved District Thirteen again, nor her gentle, tender parents.

But most of all, Shyen Ann Brooke prepared herself for death.

Yet, now that she was so close to it, she discovered that she had not been ready after all. Not even close.

"Stand down, or she dies," the woman, Naomi, pressed the blade harder against her skin, and a soft whimper escaped her lips as a droplet of blood seeped out of her pale skin. She watched as the two boys shared a look, a look that clearly said they both shared the same response to what Naomi Desmond was saying. However, what answer they shared was a mystery of Shyen Ann – were they going to listen to Naomi, or were they going to leave her to die? She looked at Peter and Caste imploringly, her heart torn between asking them to save her or run and save themselves. She loved them both, for they had become so close during their time in the arena that she now thought them as her brothers. Despite rapid beating of her heart and the fatigue that ate away at her bones, the girl still managed to marvel at how one dire situation could bring three people so closely together that they could've been related by blood. Just a week ago, they were strangers who had never seen each other's faces, living their owns lives and dreaming their own dreams.

Now, Peter Mask and Caste Morea were all that Shyen Ann had left.

The thin, jagged blade of the knife dug deeper into her fragile skin as Naomi spat, "Answer, now."

Maybe it's better if I die.

She opened her mouth to say the words that had suddenly appeared in her head, but before she could say anything, the knife was ripped from her throat and she crashed to the floor. Everything was a blur around her, a plethora of colors that danced before her eyes, but through the fuzziness and haziness of her eyesight, she was still managed to see Peter Mask struggling on top of the withering, screaming form of Naomi Desmond underneath. Two strong, powerful arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her back, and she heard the familiar voice of Caste murmur, "Look away, Shyen Ann."

Instead of obeying, she did the opposite. She continued watching the horror unfold before her, where Peter reached down and plunged the knife deep into Naomi's stomach, prompting a loud, shrill shriek from a young boy that Shyen Ann hadn't previously noticed before. She did not know his name, but it didn't matter – because in the space of a few seconds, he had joined Naomi's corpse on the floor, blood spurting out of the fatal wound in his neck. Peter Mask stood over them both, bloodied knife in hand, crimson splatters on his handsome, angular face and clothes. No longer did his pale blue eyes hold warmth and kindness – rather, they now possessed a type of raging, burning fire. It scared her. No, it terrified her.

Look away, Shyen Ann.

Oh, how she wished she did. Because now, she could never look at Peter Mask the same way again.