PANIC ROOM II

One

 Three hours pass like seconds. The dormitory is large, eighteen uniform beds lining the white-washed walls. No one has spoken in hours. My tongue feels dry, my voice resting, as I begin to ponder over the events of the past few days.

 72 hours ago, we woke up in the labyrinth. Over the past few days and nights, six candidates have been killed. Two of them died directly because of me. The first, 010 Eric, was slaughtered trying to set me free. The other, 005 Charlie, a traitor whom I admittedly fell in love with, got shot in the head with a crossbow as he tried to slit my throat. 

 A spectre looms over us, counting down until the second task in large neon red letters. The stopwatch cites we have 12 more hours to recover, before the second task begins. I leave my weapons on the dull grey bed, and walk towards the showers. Once inside the cubicle, I unlatch the segmented armour, scratched and somehow still intact, and step under the jet of lukewarm spray. The grime and dried blood washes away, but the scars remain. I rinse my hair, oil and blood from fresh injuries tinting my scalp red. 

  I step out the shower and reach for the awaiting towel. A flash of light inside my vision stuns me, caught off guard as the horrible memories burst into my head. Eric's bloody hand reaching for help, the pain as the stitching in my stomach breaking loose as the parasite emerged, the thrashing limbs of Will's corpse, as it became a Fallen,  the ebbing flow of blood from 022 Sam's stab wound, the blood pouring from Charlie's forehead, so much blood, flowing into my eyes, choking my nose and mouth...

"020? Are you alright in there?" Jacob's voice sounds concerned, as my body hits the partition, shellshocked. A urgent knocking on the cubicle door. Snapping out of it, I shakily dress into some fresh undergarments, the knocking getting louder and louder, pummelling the sides of my head, I sink to the floor, overwhelmed as more visions break past the feeble floodgate of my memory. My own knife poised into my own heart, the bloodhound siren, the harsh black "TRAITOR" tattoo on my wrist triggering more events to come to mind. The sensation of being dragged and bound to a post, strangled by my armour, water beating down on my head like bullets...

 The door bursts open and James pulls me to my feet, throwing the busted lock aside. He drags me out of the cubicle, where the others are stood, their worried faces blurred with adrenaline. Upon realising I have no armour on, he swiftly grabs a towel and wraps it around my shoulders, as the other candidates shield their eyes politely. Still breathless from the attack, I look around, searching for the hidden device PANIC ROOM ENTERPRISES installed to plant these visions in my head.

Then, Chris's gentle Australian accent resounds in my head.

"It ain't no device, 020."

Then what is it?

"You're traumatised." 

*

"How are you feeling now?" James checks for the second time. Honestly I am still shaken, but his level of concern is beginning to annoy me. But at the same time, I don't want to be alone. 

"Better." I answer shortly. His dark brow is shadowed with fatigue, his eyelids dropping despite his best efforts.

"Go to sleep," I say quietly, but he shakes his head firmly. "why not? You look exhausted!"

"I don't wanna fall asleep because of the fucking nightmares." He sighs, rubbing his face. I shift over on the hard grey mattress. 

"You can sit there if you like." I offer, but he declines again.

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable..." He protests as I shrug it off. He awkwardly sits down with his back to me. Numerous bruises bloom across his shoulder blades and neck, contrasting in deep purples and yellows against his pale skin.

Trust no one candidates. The presence of trust makes the disease spread faster.

Suddenly, James's bruises burst, blood sloshing out of the openings. I press a hand over my mouth as James falls to the floor, blood splashing onto the floor out of his eyes and injuries. He's bleeding to death.