Battle Royale: The Blood of The Lambs

Briefing at 12PM

It's cold in here. This thought is the first thing that invades my mind. The cold air brushing against my bare arms sends a shiver down my back, which slowly brings me back to consciousness. I slowly open my eyes, squinting painfully, and unable to make out nothing but darkness. 

Whatever air that blows in this room seems much stronger now. It sends my tousled hair sideways and into my mouth, forcing me to blow it away forcefully, trying to get rid of the strands now stuck to my moist lips. The stubborn pieces refuse to move, and I go to swat them away with my hand. However, my hand refuses to move, and I realize that I'm handcuffed behind the chair I sit in.

In a flash, all the events prior to my loss of consciousness come flooding back to me. How long has it been? A day? A few hours? I wriggle in the handcuffs that restrict me to this seat, and wince as the the metal digs into my wrists. "You've GOT to be kidding me!" I manage to surprise myself with how loud I shout. 

Ferociously, I twist my wrists sideways, desperate to free myself. "Come on, come on, come on," I plead.The handcuffs are nearly melded with my skin, and every move feels like a rusted knife rubbing against my skin. I abruptly end the effort and rest my hands in defeat, cursing to myself. I have no idea where I am. There's nothing going on outside -- that I can hear, anyway -- so I doubt we're still at the school.

There'd surely be lively nosies of car sirens, reporters, and distressed parents filling the air. I widen my eyes, hoping to adjust to the dark quickly. Nothing changes much, but I am able to notice the clock above my head. It's a brightly lit blue, but only seems to set light out in the small vicinity of it's circular shape.

September 12th, 11:59am. September 12th? It's been three whole days? I scoff with disbelief. Whatever Simmons shot into me certainly did a number. I imagine what my mom is doing right now. Most likely calling every police stating in existence, desperate to figure where I've gone to. Good luck to her finding me. I'm having trouble identifying where I am myself. I swallow, fear swelling up in my throat. Something hard and heavy around my neck makes this motion quite uncomfortable. 

A bell let's out a quick, but quiet, ring; Almost similar to the ring my toaster let's out when it tells me my Chocolate Chip Pop-Tart is ready. I stare up at the green clock. 12:00pm It reads. In an instant, the lights flash on, as if triggered by the appearance of noon. 

The room is much smaller than I anticipated. It's about half the size of a jail cell. I can tell I'd bump my head on the ceiling if I were able to stand, so I judge that the room is no more than five 5 foot and 11 inches in height. As for length and width, it's nearly arms width both ways.

There's only one other thing on the dark blue walls besides the clock. It sits in the wall right in front of my face, and is pretty hard to miss. It's a large black tv-screen, compliments of "Umaro Co." Whoever that is, I think to myself. Nothing is being played on it. Well, nothing except some weird insigna. There's words inside some type of plant that read, "BR: Battle Royale Survival Program."

Survival. That word gives me a terrible feeling in my gut. What exactly is this? Some type of waiting room. At 12:30 will Simmons come in the room and lay a hot iron on my chest? This seems like some type of dungeon he'd have under his house. This thought leaves me to wonder what could've happened to Joan and Keith. If they were not shot with bullets, they must be cuffed up somewhere like me. Then again, I hope they're not. If Simmons plans on going in there and doing what he pleases with them, they'd be better off dead.

As if it sensed my worries, the television in front of me begins to flicker with excitement. The screen become filled with multiple colors, and unknown voices all speak at once, like I'm flipping through radio stations. Eventually, the multiple voices begin to retract into one booming voice. One that seems to be all too familiar. "Are you awake?" the voice asks to me, coming through 40 percent static. The colors on the T.V still move around wildly, but begin to focus on one spot in the center of the picture. "What? Who's there?" I ask, frantic to know who the mystery man is. As seconds pass, I see bits and pieces, and the picture slowly becomes clearer. A Silhouette -- a slim shape -- glasses -- a green sweater -- small hands -- Oh no.

"Mr... Tyson?" I ask, bewildered.

As if on cue, the picture comes to full focus, and I can clearly see a curly haired, grey eyed Mr. Tyson.

"Hello Lui,"  Mr. Tyson says. The corner of his mouth tugs into an evil smirk, and I suddenly wish I'd stayed asleep.