It’s a game of some sort.
A twisted game. A game where people die. A game where over and over you watch your loved ones slaughtered. It is a cruel game. And the worst part is there’s no one else to blame but yourself.
Of course there is always the slim chance you will win. Granted a single wish along with the freedom of life. But can you live knowing all around lies the scent of death? Would you rather let the game progress and act as a simple piece, just waiting to be sacrificed?
Eventually someone will take on the offer.
So tell me; if I challenged you, would you accept?
Or would you, like many others, run and seek a quick painless death as an act of cowardice?
CHAPTER 1
I think the first time Mareya spoke of Delt‘r was in February. It was stormy and the wind beat loud against the window, rain battering the tin roof. In was hailing too, which made the whole scenario so unusual- since Gandria had been suffering from a drought for the last weeks.
We had the fire running and the pizza delivery man was four minutes later. Normally I’d be working late- it was Wednesday so my usual time to knock of work was about eight and it was somehow strange, just me a Mareya sitting quietly on the couch. We’d had a black out and with that the TV had died, so now there was just an awkward silence, no one daring to speak.
“Mama…”
Mareya was sitting cross-legged; bent over a sketch book with her pink bear shaped bag slung over one shoulder. With her soft honey gold hair slipping from the pins and falling over her eyes she looked somewhat angelic, her usual somewhat sadistic features softened by her intent gaze.
A pencil grazed across the paper and the odd unfamiliar lines started to form a figure just recognizable as a person. Mareya let out a sigh, drawing a long arrow pointing towards the girl she’d drawn.
“Delt’r” she stated loudly, pointing at the girl.
“That’s Delt'r, she is making the storm”
I took the picture from her small hands, taking in the amount of detail Mareya had tried to submit to paper. It was quiet well drawn for a five year old, the features of the body quiet clear: the short blond hair, the pink beanie and dress and the small cherry tattooed on her hand. Even her face had been carefully sketched to show one eye red the other blue and lips torn in a mocking laugh, red as blood.
I didn’t like it. I didn’t like Mareya’s drawings. I wasn’t the type of mother to congratulate Mareya for every simple act she tried. Her drawings were twisted. They always had been, hiding some tortured story she’d invented.
“Who is Delt'r?”
“The Witch mama! She is making the storm!”
I frowned; I could feel my forehead crease with wrinkles- which was something I tried hard to avoid. “Is she a good witch?”
“Mama is silly! Delt'r is a witch! She plays games!”
Games. It was the first picture to which Mareya hadn’t come up with an evil story, a story where people die or creatures of darkness take over the world. It was a happy story.
I was relieved.
So I hung the picture up on the fridge and I watched Mareya’s proud face smile at me.
But now?
Now that has all changed.
Now the picture is burning before my eyes, licked in flames and crumbling to ash.
Now I wish Delt'r didn’t play games.
