Lock And Key Game Tasks

Task Five: The Feast of Blood and Gore

Here is my entry for task five. The word count I used was: 2, 113. I scored an 11. 

I killed Sparrow. That single thought played continuously in his mind and thoughts. Haunting him, reminding him of what he was.

A killer. A monster.

He woke with a jerk, breathing heavily. Disoriented, he tried to calm his breathing, to gather his bearings and figure out where he was. Tightening his left hand on his spear, he pounded it against the floor as he stood shakily to his feet.

"This is my lucky day. I get to fight the blind idiot," a voice said. It was deep—male. He didn't recognize it, so he tensed, trying to pinpoint where the voice had come from.

A high-pitched voice giggled, from what sounded like a loudspeaker. "Hello, dear tributes! I deeply regret to inform you, but our previous Head Game Maker, Raina Denverview, has unfortunately passed away. Now, I will be replacing Mrs. Denverview, may her soul rest in peace, and I've, well, changed the arena up a little. However, I can't give you the details about that. But I can tell you that there is going to be a feast! There, you'll find something you desperately need. Oh, and don't get rid of your partner. You might need their help later."

The boy in the room, snorted. "Well, I guess that means I can't kill you."

Sartan clenched his jaw, but said nothing in reply.

"That doesn't mean I have to work with you." There was the hollow pounding of footsteps on a wooden floor. Slamming the end of his spear against the floor, Sartan focused on the echoing sounds bouncing around the room. There was a pedestal with some sort of objects, but Sartan couldn't tell what they were.

He dashed over there, guessing that whatever they were, the other tribute needed them too.

The footsteps echoed, followed by the slamming of a door, and then silence. Sartan finally reached the objects and felt them, trying to figure out what they were. They were long, made of hard, distressed metal, and were in the shape of crosses. There were three of them. Sartan guessed there had been more, but that the tribute had taken some and left.

He made his way to the wall and felt around until he found a door. Opening it, he stepped on through.

There was a whoosh from behind him before he'd had a chance to shut the door. Turning around, he clenched his spear in his right hand and the crosses in his left.

An image came to the forefront of his mind:

A man, with an athletic build and shaggy black hair, wore black leather armor covering every inch of his body.

He looked just like Sartan.

What disturbed Sartan the most was the man's eyes; they were bright green, and undamaged—not blind like his own.

The image of himself stalked straight toward him. Fear thudded inside his chest, clawing at him.

Another hallucination? A dream?

There was laughter. It was cold...detached, and sent the fear burrowing deeper inside him.

Sartan shivered.

"That image of me you're seeing in your mind... Well, it's not really an image. I'm real, Sartan, and I'm you." The voice was his voice, but there was something about it that sounded off. It was him, but not really him.

The crosses in his hand grew warmer. Instinctively, he held it up to his face.

There was a hiss, and in his mind, the image of the other Sartan jumped back. Suddenly inspired, Sartan placed one of the metal crosses in the middle of the doorway, in between himself and the voice.