Scarlett Romero has spent her entire life as an ordinary citizen; going to school, getting a job and definitely not killing people in the middle of the woods on a Friday night.
Until one Friday night, she does.
All she can remember is acting out of...
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Chapter Seven "A Game of Survival"
Scarlett's POV:
I walk back and forth in solitary, bottom lip shredded to pieces and fists clenched so tight my nails puncture my palms. The sting grounds me, and the heaviness in my chest lifts with a large breath.
I sink to the floor, crossing my legs and getting as comfortable as I can. Kylie gave me two things in our quick visit, and I haven't had the chance to look at them. Knowing there are no cameras – courtesy of the bastards who threw me in here –, now is the perfect time to look at the gifts, if you can call them that.
First, whatever she put in my hand. I unravel my fingers and cradle a cold, heavy knife in hand. It's small, the entire thing the length of my hand, from wrist to the tip of my middle finger. Its sheath is gold, patterned with ancient pictures I recognise as hieroglyphs. The handle is blue and gold, designed to fit in the curve of my fingers.
A throwing knife.
I unsheathe the old weapon, the iron underneath a little rusted, but shiny enough to glint under the light. It's beautiful, something that belongs in a museum. So, how did Kylie get her hands on it? She couldn't have stolen it, I'm the one with sticky fingers. How did she smuggle it into the prison?
I shake my head. I won't be getting answers for a while, if ever. For now, I'll just be thankful I have a weapon in a place hellbent on either killing me or keeping me in a cage. Besides, perhaps the book Kylie gave me has the answers?
I rest the knife on my thigh, the chill of the metal seeping into my skin and burying itself deep inside me. I shiver, but otherwise ignore it and pull the tiny book from the waistband of my shorts.
Like the knife, it's obviously old, passed down through generations. It's leather, scratched on the back and peeling at the spine, but the front is intact enough for the inscription to be readable.
Laws of the Mind: Volume III: Memory.
I groan, throwing my head back and cursing at the ceiling. Memory was a topic in my high school Psychology class, and ironically, all I can remember is short-term and long-term memory storage. Why did Kylie think I need a reminder of how the brain works?
Nevertheless, I crack open the book, careful not to break it. The pages are thick, but brittle, as if made from something that has decayed over time. Upon first glance, it looks like any old notebook, with a cursive scrawl that's hard to read and information I don't care about, until I look closer.
It's a diary, the author recounting everything they learned of the mind. I open to a page of experimentation, and a first-hand experience about someone having a hole drilled into their head. It talks about the questionable ethnicity of trepanation and if it's legitimately effective.
