Writer's Games: Carnival

Semi Finals: Morgan Griffin

I am not a tragedy, merely a canvas that has been scribbled on, torn, and left to rot by myself.

 

I was still in shock, I think. The freezing cement floor of the small room whose walls were lined with mirrors bit like frost into my torn skin as I lay sprawled on the floor, unable to make myself move. I could feel the mechanic arm shackled to my ankle; the thing that had ripped me from my companions mutilated bodies and had dragged me into this room to face some other unspeakable horror that was bound to rear its head any second.

 

Still, I didn’t move. I didn’t try to get up and find a way out. I didn’t see the point. This was a war, a war we didn’t ask for. It had grabbed us around our necks and forced us to fight to the death. No one would be life alive, not even the one who was left standing, for their would be nothing left to them.

 

That deep overpowering will to live had left me, it had packed its bags and left realizing that I was too far gone to save. It had been years since I had felt like this; the crushing desire to simply end it all.

 

Three days ago I had dreams, dreams to go to college and study the beautiful mysteries of art and the methods of weaving words together, I had dreams to publish a book of poetry that would inspire millions, I had dreams to be a renowned poet someday. Three days ago when Arwen had pulled me out of bed early and announced we were going to the carnival my life had been at dawn, painting the brilliant colors of pink and purple across the sky. Three days later my sun was nearly set, it was dipping below the horizon line quietly, surrounded by grey clouds.  I was empty, even if the police were to break into the carnival now and save me, there wasn’t much left to save.

 

I had seen so many people die. I had caused a girl to die, a boy had begged me to save him but I could do nothing, another girl’s eyes had been burned out next to me as I sat and stared. I hadn't even known their names. Images of the gory deaths flashed through my mind, each one raking across my soul, gnashing it with its teeth as it passed, grabbing a small part of me to take away with it. Then I thought of Bobby, my own brother who had been here and I hadn’t even recognized him! I should have protected him. I felt tears well in my eyes as the gory image taken of his death flashed through my mind. Arwen had done it. Arwen had killed him as she fell apart.

 

I remembered her pleading for me to let her explain. She had felt terrible, I’d seen it in her eyes as she tried to offer my comfort. And what had I said? I need time. Now she was dead. If only I had realized

 

I bit my lip and tried not to cry as the memory of the axe that had swung out of nowhere as we ascended the stairs. It had hit her, slicing her in half. She had tried to say something to me in her last seconds but Cleo had grabbed me and yanked me upwards as another axe narrowly missed us, screaming that it was too late for her.

Whatever Arwen had wanted to tell me haunted me like a ghost, but what I had wanted to tell her haunted me even more. She had died without knowing how much I still cared about her, my lips were heavy with the words that still wanted to fall from my lips; I forgive you.

 

I had said I wanted time, but time was something I didn’t have.

 

Then it had been Maxine to die. She had been right in front of Cleo and I, dodging the  items that soared at us with the agility of a cat- then from nowhere a burst of flame had enveloped her body from a small crack in the wall. I remember Cleo yanking the back of my shirt, keeping me from stumbling into the flames myself. Maxine’s body had crumbled and charred under the flame shrieking as the flame overpowered her strength, her wit, and her drive until all that was left was a charred corpse, a shadow of what she once was.