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> Conclusion to the Game, something I wrote for class
Rydko
post Dec 24 2011, 08:57 PM
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He began the game the week prior, but already he has become engrossed in it. He never stopped, unless he had to tend to his needs or to school. Whenever he was at school, his focus would always be elsewhere, on the game. He replayed every move he made in the game as he mechanically went through the motions of the school life. He dedicated very little of his attention to his friends as he thought solely of the next objective. He ignored the announcements over the intercom about some safety precautions to be taken due to recent murders in the area that had covered the news the past few days, as the real world gave him no interest. The only deaths that mattered to him were the ones in the game. His thumbs twitched as he ached to manipulate the characters for his satisfaction, to achieve the best possible kill. When the bell rang, he ignored those who waved at him, and quickly rode his bike to his house, half a mile away from the school. The forestís trees blurred as he sped down the streets not bothering to even notice the increased policemen patrolling the streets. Not even bothering to put up his lime-green bike properly, he quickly dismounted and left it on the lawn, the tires spinning quietly. He ran up the brick path that cut in a zig zag pattern across the yard to his simple one-story brick house, the black roof stood predominant against the mid-afternoon sun. Neither of his parents was home, so there were no distractions as he quickly dug through his pockets for his keys to open the white, windowless door. Not bothering to lock the door behind him, he threw his backpack to the dining table in the kitchen which was to the left of the door. He ran to the kitchen, grabbed a load of baked bread his mother had made the night before, and opened the knife drawer. He selected the biggest one and quickly sliced himself several slices. He then left the knife and leftover bread and quickly went down the hallway leading to his room. He quickly opened it, grabbed the controller, and simultaneously turned on both the console and T.V.
As he waited for the game to load, he sat down in his favorite spot in the room, his overstuffed black beanbag chair which sat only a yard away from the precious T.V. He sat back comfortably as his mind tuned into the game. He had become Daniel Stone, a fugitive on a killing rampage. His cold eyes mercilessly mowed down innocent lives with whatever weapons he can get his hands on. The only thing that drove him was the pleasure to kill, or so it would appear to everyone on the outside. The truth was that someone was controlling his actions, making him kill. He didnít enjoy it; he received no pleasure as he watched powerlessly his own hands murder helpless men, women and children. He never once had a thought to kill, in fact he wasnít supposed to be in prison, someone had framed him for a crime that he had no connections to. According to the evidence, he had walked into a hospital in the middle of a summer night and massacred 26 doctors, nurses and patients with a pick-ax. He could not recall such horrific events, but the prosecution had security tapes to place him on the very scene. Daniel was sentenced to life. He had hoped to serve his sentence quietly in hopes to get a possible parole in 20 years. However, one cool December night as he lay in his prison cell he felt a strange force take over his body. His arm suddenly twitched while he was peacefully reading a novel. He stared at his arm in confusion, as suddenly his whole body sat up quickly without his command. He cried out as he jumped off the bunk and onto the ground, his body awkwardly moving against his will. The prison guard came quickly to see what the commotion was about, rattling the metallic bars with this baton to get Danielís attention. Daniel had barely cried a word when his body all of a sudden lurched forward towards the bars with lightning speed. The guard tried to back away but Danielís hand had shot through the bars and grabbed a hold on his clothing, gripping with inhuman strength. Before the guard could even shout a word of protest, Daniel had pulled him forward, causing his head to crack against the bars, instantly knocking him out cold, blood running profusely from the his wound. Daniel screamed hysterically as his body quickly searched the guardís body for the key to his cell. In a manner of seconds, he had opened his cell and darted down the catwalk; the other prisoners observed what he had done and howled in their cells as they became violent.
He didnít regain control of his body for several hours, and by then at least a dozen guards had fell victim to his hands. He had escaped from the prison but not before he stole keys from one of the guards he had killed and drove his car out of the gates. He was at least 100 miles away from the prison when suddenly he regained control of his body once more. It was like the omniscient presence just went away. He pulled over on the side of the road and turned off the engine, hands shaking; he didnít want to believe the horrors he had done. Daniel shook his head, screamed incoherent syllables, and punched the dashboard. He sat there for several minutes, just screaming until he felt his voice grew hoarse. Once he quieted down, he turned on the radio to try to calm his nerves with some music. After cycling through several stations, he settled on jazz. He closed his eyes and rested his head against headrest, trying to let his sanity come back to him. He felt his old self slowly come back to him as a low saxophone played in the background, coaxing his head to clear of its worries. His mind gradually faded back, as he regained consciousness of the normal life that he abruptly left less than a year ago. This brief moment was instantly ruined when suddenly he heard the radio. His eyes snapped open as the D.J. announced, ďThere was a brutal breakout in the prison located south of our peaceful town, at least 10 guards were killed and several more critically wounded. There is one escapee, Daniel Stone, a six foot tall black man, shoulder length hair, fair skinned, brown eyes. If you see this man, please alert the authorities, he is extremely dangerous. Do not try to confront him.Ē Daniel just stared at his own reflection, eyes now wide. The description fit him well, but lucky for him they forgot to mention the goatee that he had recently acquired. He always had his hair long because he always admired the rock stars he grew up idolizing. Realizing that he had do change it somehow, he quickly removed the keys and stepped out of the car. Night had already settled in and the roads were near empty, only the occasional car drove by on the highway. He quickly ran to the trunk, looking inside to find a gym bag. Thankfully, the guard always went to work out directly after his watch shift. Shedding his prison clothing, he changed into the workout clothes. They were a bit baggy on his average frame, and it was obvious the guard worked out often, as the slight smell of body odor was permanently embedded in the clothing. He noticed a razor and shaving cream also in the bag, and suddenly an idea formed in his head. He quickly searched the trunk for the medical kit and found surgical scissors inside. They werenít perfect but they do, he thought as he clumsily began to cut at his own hair, using the dim reflection from the moonlight as a guide. Within in minutes, he managed to cut his hair to uneven stubble against his head, but he wasnít done yet. Grabbing the shaving cream and razor, he went to work on becoming bald. After he was done, a cold breeze caused him to shiver, his now smooth scalp unaccustomed to the sudden change. But when he saw his own reflection, he smiled. He hardly recognized the man he saw staring back at him and he knew the authorities would have a harder time finding him. He tossed the bag in the trunk and closed it. Only then did he notice that he left the razor on the bumper. Instead of opening the trunk again, he picked it up and took it with as him as he opened the driverís door. Tossing the razor on the passengerís seat, he turned the key in an attempt to start the engine, but to no anvil. He tried again as he glanced to the gauges and saw them flashing dimly. He had run down the battery while listening to the radio. He cursed as he banged his fist against the dashboard, resting his head against the steering wheel, trying to figure out what to do. Thatís when it happened.
Suddenly there was a pain between his temples, his ears rang and his vision blurred. Daniel clenched his head in agony as he noticed a car pulling over in front of him. An elderly man stepped out of the car and hobbled towards him, a kind expression worn on his face. He tapped on the window and Daniel barely managed to reach over to roll down. The elderly manís voice was calm and gentle as he asked, ďCar trouble son?Ē Daniel managed to nod as the old man limped to the front of the hood, calling over, ďPop the hood.Ē
Daniel groaned in agony as he reached for the lever. The pain intensified as the old man opened the hood, examining the engine trying to diagnose it. Danielís vision began to fade as he heard the old man call out to him. He tried to shake his head to clear it but the last thing he saw was the razor glistening in the moonlight before he blacked out completely.
He woke several hours later to find that he in the driverís seat in the car the old man was driving, only this time he was pulled over on the shoulder of a different highway. His shirt was blood stained and the razor had travelled with, crimson with blood. Whose blood it was, he could only imagine. He opened the car door and vomited. He wiped his mouth as he noticed the button to open the trunk had a blood fingerprint, on it. His eyes widen as he realized in horror what exactly might be back there. He dried heaved, his head swimming with questions. What had happened? Where was he? Why did he kill that kind old man, and most importantly how did that happen? He received no answer but in return had an epiphany. Someone didnít frame him for the crime that sent him to jail. Something had taken over his body. Disturbed by this thought, Daniel quickly got out of the car and stumbled in the dark. He ran through the forest blindly, trying to escape whatever force it was that manipulated his will.
That was one week ago. Everyday this process would repeat itself. He would try to run away and some poor soul would come and try to help him. The headache would cause him to black out and he would wake up later to find their blood on his hand. He tried to isolate himself from the public in hopes to save innocent lives, but the force would take over his body and go searching for more lives to take.
However, something had started to change. The headache wasnít as intense and he didnít black out anymore, though he was forced to watch the horrific events as his own two hands carried it out, powerless to stop prevent them. He always tried to fight the force, and he always ended up losing though lately he had become better at resisting. Somehow, he had a feeling that it was all about to be over soon, that he would finally get rid of the force.
Currently, he is hiding in the forest of a neighborhood. There is a nearby school, the bells of which had just rung to release its students for the day. Policemen were circling the streets, keeping a lookout for Daniel. Normally he wouldíve avoided such scenes like this, but for some reason he felt compelled to remain in the area. He had an irking feeling that somehow he was close to gaining back control.
Suddenly he felt the headache slowly approaching, Danielís eyes flashed with worry as he looked around for an innocent bystander. Just then, a boy on bike sped by directly in front of him. Daniel cried out silently as his headache intensified, he instinctually braced himself for the force to take over, closing his eyes. But it did not come. He snapped open his eyes, the headache gradually fading as the boy passed. His eyes followed the boy as he made a turn, the last thing he saw was a flash of lime-green. Suddenly, there was no doubt in his mind in what he had to do.
He emerged from the trees, walking calmly towards the street where the boy had turned. Fate seemed to be on his side, for no cop seemed to notice him as he walked on by. When he finally reached the street, he saw the lime-green bike lying on its side on a lawn. Its wheel was still spinning in the lawn in front of a simple one story, brick house with a black roof that contrasted again the bright midday sun. He walked smoothly against the zig zag pathway. As he approached the door he felt his headache come back, but he did not hesitate. He reached for the door, turning the knob, slowly and quietly, he slipped inside the house. To the left he saw a table with a backpack discarded on it. He paused briefly as he saw something that caught his eyes. Past the table he saw a kitchen, a cutting knife resting on a counter next to some baked bread. He silently ignored the bread and grabbed the knife. Turning around, he saw a long hallway with a lone door at the end of it. With every step he took towards it, his headache grew worse, but he did not falter in his stride.
Observing that the door was not fully closed, he pushed it open, careful not to make a noise. In the room he saw a scrawny kid with his face only a few feet away from the T.V. screen, sitting comfortably in a black beanbag chair. He seemed frustrated at the game he was playing; it seemed the character on screen would not listen to the childís commands. As Daniel Stone raised the knife above his head, the headache finally subsided.
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