This sequence never leaves me. This final moment washes over my body and brings with it immortality. I’m left feeling strong, so dominant I could lift mountains, create tidal waves, and produce catastrophic storms upon mere mortals. I become a god.
The thirst that grows to the point of unbearable as my game plays out is automatically quenched once these bitches no longer breathe. And after my heartbeat slows, and I catch my breath, I sit quietly in nature, slicing away the fingertips of these women who have brought me pain. I relax to the point I feel weightless … It’s a meditative calm. A woman’s touch is all she really owns in her life, and it’s the last thing I need to take before I can prepare to hunt all over again.
But even though there are no names left on my list, I know it’s not over. I won’t be able to stop after I take Morgan’s life, like I promised myself I would, because I’m forever hungered for immortality, and I’m forever in need of the hunt.
Morgan no longer appears as the broken doll she did the last time I locked her in this room. She’s still battered, grazed, gashed, cut, and bruised, but now she’s cleaned from the elements that hitchhiked on her extremities, and from the dry blood that was staining her skin.
The colour red has always been such a good match against Morgan’s pale complexion. It's one she’s often worn throughout the years. I watch as she limps around the room in the short underwear and tight white fitted tank top I exchanged her clothing with, and as I do, I exhale my satisfaction. Every single one of my players, bar my first, has worn this uniform to their death. They need to know they’re my property, and this is the reason ‘Property of The Wolf’ is on the breast of each top, written in the colour red.
My game plan is flawless.
The backpack I put together for Morgan is now out of the garbage bag and laying in the middle of the floor. I’m puzzled by this because every other player who has stood where Morgan is now has clutched this bag as if their life depended on it. Not Morgan though.
What is she doing?
Her arse becomes my view as she bends over at the tub. I switch the camera directly to the opposite side of the room to find Morgan slurping from her cupped hand. Her thirst must be extreme to drink such filth. She’s the first one of my Reds to do so.
The watch wrapped around my wrist begins to alarm at the pre-set time of 2:45 a.m. It’s time for Morgan's next test. Only three players have made it past nightfall on this day, and I hope Morgan can make it a fourth, but I’m not holding out hope; not after inspecting her this morning. She’s quite damaged.
She will fall. She will scream. She will have to navigate the dark.
Payback can be such a bitch.
Morgan
The water tastes metallic and earthy as I slurp from my cupped hands—a necessary distraction. I know the wolf is watching me and I need to find somewhere to hide the pair of long-handled surgical scissors I’m trying hard not to stab my lip with as I protect them in my palms against my lips. Where do I put them? How do I get them out of here without him seeing?
The outfit left for me to clothe myself with leaves little room for hiding my find, and trying to get them into the plastic bag, or the backpack will be difficult if his eyes are focused on my actions. He’s always watching me. That’s what he said. My mind is fuzzy, my heart pumps painfully, and as I stay hunched over the clawfoot tub, I begin to shake.
Rattle, rattle, rattle.
A sound resembling that of a rusty old chain being shaken comes from below. It’s him. I twist awkwardly and dart across the room to cover floor space, and fast. My beaten body manages to stay upright until I drop to the cold concrete in front of the backpack. The only chance to discard the scissors is now.
I rip open the zipper and dump the scissors inside making sure to scrunch the two pieces of material together in my trembling fist. Morgan. Calm down. Zip up the bag. I’m not sure if it’s due to my wet hands or the fright shooting through every part of my body, but sealing the bag proves difficult.
Come on, Morgan. Get it together. You can do this.
Clunk.
Screech.
I drop my head and shoulders and use my now damp hair as a shield. Please do up. I’m petrified. With my teeth gritted and my determination reaching fever pitch, I hear the zip sliding across its tracks until I listen to it no more.
Thud!
One, two footsteps, and then there’s silence.
I jump when pressure applies to the tip of my shoulder.
“What are you doing, Red?” The room fills with the smell of bubble gum, and my stomach instantly rumbles.
He’s here, in the room with me. He enters below the floor, but how? The flooring is concrete. That’s impossible.
“Morgan.” He pinches me.
I jump. “Nothing,” I whimper.
“Time to go. Get up.” His British accent is no more; he speaks as he did on the night he took me. My head is yanked back by my hair, and I yelp. “Look at me.”
I do, only to be faced with the same green eyes I saw through the projection screen. What does this mean? Why aren’t his eyes blue? Where did the accent go? “I don’t understand.”
“You’re not supposed to understand, Red. That’s the point.” His lips purse. “I thought you knew who I was?”
“I … I …I … do. I know … know … who … I’m n … no …not,” I stutter.
“Bullshit.” He laughs. “Are you ready to kill me now?” He pulls my hair harder.
“Yes.” It’s barely audible.
“Okay then. Shall we get started? After all, it’s your funeral.”
I don’t want to play. I want to go home, and now I regret putting those darn scissors into the backpack and not keeping them in my hand where I could use them to plunge deep into his stupid neck.
I’m on tiptoes that barely touch the ground. The wolf has lifted me by my arm into the air, like a weightless ragdoll. “Against the wall,” he commands.
I want to kick, bite, scratch, punch, and break this man, but I can’t. I’m weak in body, and I’m not sure what the fuck my mind is doing. I go between feeling heroic and vulnerable, like a yo-yo.
“I want your hands against the wall, legs spread.” He delivers his instructions with an eerie calm. “I’m going to let your arm go now.”
He releases his grip immediately, and I fall into a heaped mess on the floor. I couldn’t even stay upright.
“Red, I don’t have all day. Places to be, people to see, and all that shit. Don’t make me throw you up against it.”
“I’m trying,” I cry out, walking my fingers across the concrete to the backpack still sitting where it fell from my grasp when he ripped me up off the ground. I can’t reach it.
“One … two … three … four. If I get to ten, I’ll strangle you where you sit.”
“I’m moving,” I yell arching my back and positioning myself on hands and knees.
“Faster,” he snaps.
Every time my kneecaps press against the ground, I yelp. Every time I reach out my hand to move forward once more, I cry. “Arrrrrrrgh. Why? Why?” It’s a forced and painful deliverance from my tongue.
“You’re waving your arse in the air like a two-bit hooker, and ...” He stops speaking.
Whack. My tailbone feels as though it’s been shoved through my spinal column, coming to rest like an unused slinky in the back of my neck. My breath catches in my throat, and my stomach convulses until I vomit, the bile landing in my hair splayed out in front of me.
“And I just got you clean. What a waste of time.”
“Just kill me.” I’m motionless as I moan.
“Dramatics? Now, this is the Morgan I know.” I swear if I could see his face, his eyes would be rolling over, judging from his tone. “Get up, you bitch.” He yanks me from the ground. I scream as my body smashes hard into the blocks.
“Take my life you fucker,” I groan as I’m held in place by his muscled hand at my back.