Writer Games: Pending Secrets

Finals - There is no Home - Peter Mask

The world was nothing but a blur of death around him, nothing but darkness and shadows. A cool breeze whipped his tangled brown curls, now matted to his forehead with sweat and blood. Perhaps, in some other time, he would've enjoyed the pleasantness of the sea air, but now, he couldn't. He felt numb and cold, withered and dried up inside. Out of the corners of his eye, he could just make out the shape of the little boy he'd thought he'd killed – Jay Rowan, with a line of red drawn around his throat, but still alive. He was crawling towards the nearest shattered window, perhaps in hopes of getting out and escaping the hellhole that they all were trapped in, but now, as Peter Mask stared at the shallow rise and fall of Shyen Ann's breath, and the still corpse of Caste Morea lying a few feet away, he knew.

He knew.

There was no escape.

He turned his attention back to the limp body of Shyen Ann Brooke lying in his arms, and pressed his body closed to hers, crumpling onto his knees. After all they'd gone through together – from the first Bloodbath to the raging tsunami – she was finally dying. It felt like he was trapped in a loop, a loop of grey despair and heartache, where everyone he loved was torn away from him by the cruel clutches of death. First, there had been Melody – his girlfriend, his sweetheart, his angel. He still remembered the first time they met like it was yesterday, and it was a memory so strong, so memorable, so powerful, that he kept it locked away deep inside his heart. It was one of those moments which one loved so dearly that they could never forget it, and would die with it replaying on repeat inside of their souls.

It was a windy autumn day, and a boy the age of sixteen was on his daily morning jog down the streets of Thirteen. Despite the weather, the sun still beamed warmly overhead, one of the many factors that caused him to slow to a fumbling stop, body glistening with sweat and throat dry with dehydration. Spotting a bench close by, he plopped himself onto the varnished wooden seat, deciding to relax for a few moments before continuing on. After all, what was the point of staying? It was barely seven am, with most inhabitants either just waking up or still sleeping, and he'd gone this route a million times before. There was nothing there to see.

Then, suddenly, appearing like a spirit, he saw her for the first time. Wind-swept brunette hair that cascaded down her shoulders, porcelain skin that could've been crafted out of moonlight, and lips of cherry red, a sharp contrast to the paleness of her skin. She walked down the street with the elegance and grace of a model from the Capitol, and suddenly, even the ordinary plaid jacket and faded jeans she was wearing appeared to be crafted out of pure gold. He'd never believed in love at first sight, but then again, he'd never felt his heartbeat increase at the mere sight of a woman before. As she walked passed, he could not help himself – in an instant he was on his feet, before her, staring deep into her eyes. They were the richest shade of brown, flecked with sparkling hazel.

"Hello," she smiled a smile that could light up the heavens. "My name if Melody. Melody Lovegrove." She stuck out her hand.

"Peter," he breathed, and took her palm gently in his. They shook. "Peter Mask."

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the frailest cough, so slight and soft that it could almost be mistaken by a breath of wind. He looked down at the girl who lay dying in his arms, blue eyes watery with unshed tears, grazing over her body, broken and bruised. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth and down her chin, and her leg was twisted abnormally, clearly broken. Yet, that was not what was killing her – not her broken leg, or the crimson stain around her mouth. No, what was killing her was the cut that dragged from her throat to the back of her neck, a cut from the knife of the pregnant woman whom he had killed. He thought he had protected her, but somehow, he had not. He somehow failed to see the way that Shyen Ann Brooke choked on her own blood as he punched the woman to death. He somehow failed to see how Caste Morea was murdered, only to find him dead by Shyen Ann's side.