The Writer Games | Once In A Lifetime & World Edition

Finals: Liz Short

At first the pale rays  of sunlight that squeeze in through the boarded window give me hope. I  have come this far, descended into the depths and risen again, and the  outside world is so close I can almost touch it. In fact...

I reach out, taking a  firm grip on one of the boards with both hands. Shuffling my feet into a  strong stance, I take one deep breath. Three, two, one... Heave! Amidst  the grunting and the straining I think I can hear the creak of bending  wood, but it's clear that I'm imagining things again. After closer  inspection, also known as knocking, I'm not even convinced that the  boards are wood. They probably have a steel core, and are there to look  good but pen us in all the same. So be it.

Still breathing heavily,  I cross the room, moving from the window past rusty and crumbling  bathroom appliances before stopping at the door. They were kind enough  to provide a lock, which I fastened the moment I settled in here. After  that I didn't really do much. Mooched around, sulking mostly. The sun  had sunk below the horizon by the time we made it up, and so I found a  place to hide, here, before settling down in a bathtub for the night.  There were no taps on the thing, so it wasn't as bad as it could have  been, but now, in the revealing morning light, I wince at the sight of  protruding nails and sharp, disjointed fragments of metal that flake  from the sides. It's a miracle I didn't cut myself.

It had been a long night  regardless. Even drugged up, sleep was hard to come by, so I simply lay  there, staring through the darkness at the ceiling and tracing cracks  in the paint, thinking. Thinking about home, mostly. About mum and dad.  About survival. Because, despite how far I've come, I'm not likely to  make it out. I haven't killed many tributes at all, and those I have  made use of gimmicks in the caves, of stalactites and electrified pools.  Here in the house there is none of that. There are four tributes and a  multitude of bare rooms.That is all. I can't win like that.

My only hope comes from  doing what I've been doing ever since our arrival. I hide, and let the  others fight it out amongst themselves. Who knows, maybe the last one  will be mortally wounded in combat, leaving me as the winner by default.  Not at all likely to happen, especially not to me, but it could do. It  really could. So, while the others are proactive downstairs with their  fighting and plotting and creating hidden traps, I will be proactive up  here. Step one: lie around for a few hours. Step two: See step one.  Easy.

Or not. The floorboards  outside creak under light feet, making me jump and shuffle back to the  window. A pause. Seconds later, the handle rattles. I can only hold my  breath and pray. Another pause, and this time I can hear the tribute  mutter under their breath. It might be wholly inappropriate at such a  tense moment, but I can't help but wonder whether the Game-Makers bleep  out swear words. The gore is bearable, but if someone says "shit", I can  only imagine the implants from the Capitol. Makes me want to say it  too.

The floor shudders, as  does the door, with splinters peeling away while the lock rattles on its  screws. It happens again, and I realise with horror what is happening.  They have an axe. That means that they can chop their way in. It also  means that, when they do, they have an axe. All I have is a rusty  bathtub.

I see MeMe's eyes peer in through the slit she has cut.

"Here's MeMe!" she screams gleefully. Oh great. Murderous AND deranged. Fucking fantastic.

Still bits of wood are  being flung into the room and out into the hallway, and soon the lock  will be isolated, an island of wood as the door falls away. Think, Liz.  Think.

What do I have? A  bathtub, a toilet, and a very wobbly sink that looks like it will crash  to the floor at any moment. How can I fight an axe with that? If I want  to survive, I'll need to throw everything at her. The kitchen sink, as  it were.