Futile Trials

What's Up, Doc?

"Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey."

"I said shut the hell up!"

"Hey."

"Enough!" Your room mate finally bursts out of their room after you sat outside their door beating on pots and pans, reading aloud from various books, singing the ABCs, tapping them messages in morse code, and doing whatever else you possiby could to get attention. 

You've been here for nearly an hour, which means they will have to leave to take their finals very, very soon. 

You're not so sure they'll make it when they come out brandishing a cord saw. Of course, you didn't notice that at first, because the first thing to meet your face was one angry fist, decorated with three class rings. 

Dazed, tasting blood, you try to regain your orientation. Which way is up?

Up is the way of your room mate, standing over you. They stomp on your chest when you try to get up, but that's ok, because you're quick enough to grab their foot and throw them off. 

Run! Get away!

You try, but they recovered too fast. The cord saw is around your neck, strapping tighter and slicing into your skin with each pull. Blood sprays in front of you, across the wall, the door, the table, your hands, your shirt, their hands.

Blood. Blood everywhere.

You bleed out before they get your head sawn off.

Game Over