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The walls are bare. They are a stark white that stares at me as I stroll down the corridor with a towel thrown over my shoulder blade. The heavy fabric that drapes against the cap of my shoulders offers no warmth and it feels like the walls are laughing at me, closing in on me with every step I take.

Everyone else who have been processed are already in their assigned rooms, preparing for the lights to blink out but I guess Death's conversation had somewhat hindered my journey to my facility. There is only the sluggish buzz of electricity that chugs throughout the infrastructure and the reluctant slosh of water as it traipse along the overhead pipes. The faint buzz of mosquitoes makes me spread my towel across the skin that the curve of my collar leaves exposed and I breathe the air in.

The air is stagnant and there's a musty smell that lingers. I flinch and dig my nails against my wrists, quickening my pace towards the showers. This Medium is such a dump. I can't believe that what follows after death is a huge disappointment, especially since I thought I crossed that border some while ago when living.

When I reach the showers, the sight that greets me is familiar. Dark water pools around my ankles in deep puddles that barely reflect the overhead lights and a pile of muddied clothing lie in heaps against the floortiles. I stifle a groan as I step into the first cubicle and begin my shower. The icy water races down and knocks against my body. The curtain of transparent droplets thrash along my skin and my thoughts begin to swirl, mimicking the spiral movements the water lapse into as they whirl down the drains.

I'm thinking about Death. How her eyes betrayed her at the very last moment. I'm thinking about escaping, running from this game. About the consequences that should be shutting my idea down but keeping it open, keeping me wondering.

Honestly speaking, how would the action from one person belonging to the Medium turn everyone else to the same fate? Aren't some contestants who got selected considering not participating, too?

I close my eyes and a dark, urgent memory tugs at my mind. The images are bitter but they surge through my head like a powerful swash and I'm gasping now, as the torrent of water slams down. The mini whirlpools begin to look like large storms advancing and I'm soaked, water collecting against my lashes, patterning my skin and sounding out the melody of a flood.

No.

I throw the door of the cubicle open and slam the flimsy plastic shut. A loud bang slices the sound of the water in half but I can still hear it, refusing to be shut down. I can't tell if the liquid that pours down my cheeks in runny streaks are tears or from the shower but I'm panting hard enough to know it can't all be from the latter. My back sinks against the wall and I'm sliding, letting my legs fall to the floor. It doesn't matter that the water takes on a close resemblance to mud, it doesn't matter that I didn't turn the shower off properly.

I'm dead. It's too late to spin time and pray that another chance at life presents itself. I'm stuck here, in this stinking Medium with nowhere to go and probably nowhere to run to. I'm still here, my soul and identity attached to my body but I'm not alive. I'm not breathing the air tainted by a thousand cars, forging a strange bond with the fragrance of a hundred trees and flowers. I'm not watching the grass dance or the river sway to the gentle rhythm of the wind, performing a delicate dance with the sunlight falling spectators.

I'm here. Doomed to a life where electricity flickers in and out of existence, where darkness takes a liking to. A life in the Medium is not a life.

My thumb is encircling the valley of my thighs now, painting trailing cascades of sheen polish on a pale canvas. The thoughts and decisions seem to float through my head like a hazy balloon, lost in space.

I can't stop thinking about Death. About how she put up an act so quickly and confidently and how it all fell apart within a day. How I barely knew her and after we had that conversation- and during the conversation- it felt like we could see beyond the facades we were both wearing. Thin masks that cracked as we lied to each other and lied to ourselves, pretending that neither of us spotted the painful reality behind what the false feelings couldn't seal.

It's funny how someone can think about everything and nothing all at once. My body seems to follow the basic mechanics of doing things- grabbing a fresh pair of clothes from the hook that I had prepared, sliding the shorts up against my hips. Drying the wet wisps of black with the towel that suddenly feels pounds heavier in my hands.

As I bring my shirt over my head, my hand falls against my shorts and slap against something in the pocket. My lips curl downwards in displeasure and I dip my fingers inside, searching for the object responsible for the disruption. The item is cool to the touch and smooth. As I draw it out and bring it beneath the dying light, I realise that it's a recorder. One of those that Death used to collect 'footage' of me and the other nine contestants.

I find the button Death had pushed to operate it and a soft conversation plays out from the dots that speck the cover.

"Are you sure he's here? Chase Woods, tall with black hair and really blue eyes? Chase Woods, in his full glory of sarcasm and witty remarks?"

"I assure you that the Chase Woods you're thinking about is the one I told you about. He's here and you can see it for yourself tomorrow, that is if he shows up."

"Wait, this isn't a joke, is it? You aren't kidding about Chase, are you?"

"Emma, do I look like the type of person who likes to make nonsensical jokes?"

What follows is a muted answer but I'm not listening closely enough or thinking straight enough to follow it. All I can think about right now is that voice, not Death's but the other girl's- so familiar, so comforting and just there. As I seal my eyes shut, a figure starts to take shape. Laughter in the form of lips drawn together into an amused twist, eyes pulled half-shut in the midst of a wide smile and eyes so bright, they could probably light up the entire Medium.

Emma Milton.

The true reason and cause behind my death is here, in the Medium with me. And if I'm right and the tape mean what they suggest, I am about to go head-on into a competition with my ex where the price for failure is likely death.

Word Count: 1184

The Great Game (2019)Where stories live. Discover now