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I can't allow myself to have any emotion—I can't afford it—but seeing them become enemies might be even more painful than when I stuck a needle in both their arms, drugging them before bringing them here.
On and on, the screen flits through a multitude of obstacles set up, and I wonder if the footage is showing just the students who have survived when suddenly it becomes a live feed again. There are a few remaining students it would seem, still trying to get over the fence. Suddenly, Windsor's voice fills the room as he announces, “Time’s up.” My gut churns at what is about to happen. It doesn’t matter if these stragglers were going to make it over the fence or not because they have no more seconds left.
Screams fill the theater room as students watch the others get shot point blank. One boy is so close to a camera, his brain matter splatters all over it, and I feel the acid bile rise in the back of my throat at the sight. I wasn't a murderer before this night, but now my hands are permanently stained red. Nothing will ever absolve me from my treachery, and an ache blossoms in my chest at the thought of these boys and girls needlessly dying. I’m trying to save those I love—but whose heart did I just rip out by not saving those students?
Windsor’s face fills the screen, his eyes alight with manic joy. “Welcome to Bitterwood, survivors! Allow me to explain what is happening while our medics come to check you out. We want you to heal so you can keep fighting!” Panicked whispers buzz around the room, but Windsor lifts an impatient hand. “Silence! The Gallery is waiting!” A double screen appears, one side with the asshole principal and the other a room full of ostentatiously wealthy men and women. “Bitterwood students, this is The Gallery—well, some of them. They are the ones deciding your fate. Some of our investors prefer to remain anonymous, but everyone present and watching from the privacy of their own homes is vested in your survival because it means more money for them! So, don’t let them down. The weak can’t survive in this environment. Either accept your place or die. Back inside the halls of Oakwood Prep, you all blindly signed a legal agreement that allowed me to transfer you to Bitterwood. Now, you’remine. Anyone out of line will be punished. Anyone caught trying to escape… good luck. I have eyes and earseverywhere—never forget it. Here, I control everything—when you eat, when you shit, when you sleep… Disobedience could cost you your very life.” Silence ensues, the students’ terror palpable. Windsor folds his hands, grinning maniacally on the large screen as he revels in their fear. “For now, class is dismissed. Wash up and mind the guards. Their word is law as is Professor Vaughn’s. Tomorrow is Round Two. So rest up.”
With this, the screen goes black, just like I wish my life would.
Armed guards flood the auditorium, keeping a watchful eye as medics tend to bleeding limbs and seeping wounds. It doesn’t take long for the well-trained team to have lacerations cleaned, deep cuts stitched back together, and medication dispensed. As the medical staff leaves, the guards make their move, barking orders and threatening students with tasers and batons. One hulking boy attempts to make a stand, squaring his large shoulders to a much smaller female guard—but she doesn’t take his shit.
Quickly pulling a taser from her belt, she fires at the student. When the prongs embed into his broad chest, he falls to his knees, screaming and shaking from the pain. With fear marring their young faces, the students finally begin to understand the brutality expected here. At Bitterwood, their names won’t save them and their families can’t buy back their freedom. Here, they’ll learn how fragile their prestigious lives really are, and that sometimes, rules aren’t made to be broken. To survive, they’re meant to be followed—to a T.
If only I could heed that same advice.
