SCREAM [ GMW ]

xix. the final round

He still didn't know where Maya was.

Even as he was separated from his friends, Mr. W.'s committee dragging them out from under their small log hut, even as he screamed bloody murder, where is she, where is she!- he still did not know. They had been taking refuge within the walls of their makeshift shelter for three days, since Maya had been abducted. The Texan was terrified.

He knew nothing. Lucas friar knew nothing.

A tall man roughly wrestled Lucas into one of four black Cadillac's, and he thrashed against him, his eyes wandering helplessly to Zay, who was pushed into the next vehicle with defeat. Lucas's split second of lost focus caused his guard to drop, and he was shoved suddenly into the automobile. His mind whirled. His world spun.

Where were they going?

That's right. Eight Spruce Street, midnight, Friday night.

The Final Round.

The Final Round.

It was too menacing than the rest of Mr. W.'s schemes to be anything like their previous encounters. Lucas expected the worst. He had to. They all had to. It was the final round, after all- would they all be killed? He pondered this.

Darby was dead. Charlie was dead. Smackle was dead. Marcus was dead, his two children, Joey and Katherine left all alone. Maya's living body did no justice to her dead soul, and Lucas hung from a slowly snapping thread wrapped around a tightrope made of fishing wire. They were all hanging above the abyss, and Mr. W. was the one to blame. All it took was one snip of his all-powerful scissors, one snap, one laugh, one cry, and they would all crash to the unknown below. Maybe, he'd already been cut. Maybe, his cable had already been severed.

Maybe Lucas Friar was dead, and this was his hell. Though the entire time, he'd been waiting in anticipation to finally reach heaven. Where did he go wrong?

The whole time, the whole ride; he had tried. Tried to save his friends, stay faithful, stay hopeful. But it grew quickly hard. If his friends were constantly placed on the side of the glass wall that was filled with fire, and he were invariably placed on the side with plenty fresh air with only his hands- how could he break the glass? He couldn't. He was too weak. Or- maybe, he just didn't try hard enough.

His mind recoiled into slight insanity as he rocked back and forth in the back seat of the Cadillac.

"My fault...my fault...should've tried harder..." He mumbled, blinking hard and long. He gathered himself once again and dropped the weight of his head onto the window, the coolness of the glass relaxing him. He watched as the buildings flew by, one by one, and they disappeared into the blackness. The stars shown brightly, and the borderline freezing air in the vehicle was crisp. The twinkling lights above reminded him of when he was a child.

His grandfather had placed small, glow in the dark star decals on his popcorn ceiling. Every night, when he could't sleep, Lucas would watch them. Sometimes he would stand up on his toes, his socks threatening to slip out from beneath him, and rearrange them. Some nights the small shining polygons found their way into the shape of a horse, or sometimes the whole state of Texas. All it took for Lucas to drift asleep was to gaze at his own little creation, his own little galaxy- and he would fall into the sweetest of dreams. All night long the small, hopeful boy with wide eyes explored his own nebula every eventide.

But this was not Lucas Friar's universe anymore, and he glared at the stars with disgust. He turned abruptly away and stared at his shoes as the Cadillac rolled up to Eight Spruce Street.

. . .

Mr. W. had held her captive in the Morrowood Prison Facility until Friday night. A new change of clothes had only been gifted to her moments before she was ushered forcefully out of her cell and into the dead corridors. Only jeans, and a black hoodie that was far too baggy. Her feet dragged against the dirty, soil embedded concrete floors.