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That’s not my story to tell. Ask Ghost.
I can’t. He won’t open up to me. I’ve tried. I’m worried about him.
Daddy Hatchet
I’ll say this. If you’ve met Donnelly and lived to tell the tale, you must be very special to Silas indeed. Which means you’re good for all of us. Got to go, I’m due in individual therapy with Seytan. Be good. Come out of your room today. We all miss you.
Fucking hate that bitch. Give her hell for me, Daddy x
I watch my phone,eagerly hoping for one last reply, but it doesn’t come. Disappointed, but also thrilled by the conversation we did have, I ponder what he means about Silas.
From what I can figure out, Ghost’s personality is sort of split into three different entities. If that’s even possible. Ghost is the withdrawn, quiet boy who we see on a day to day basis, but Silas and Donnelly live within him too. I’m not sure which one fucked me the first time in the art room, but there’s no doubt in my mind that the second time was a mix of Ghost and Donnelly. What a head fuck.
What did Hatchet meanif I lived to tell the taleafter meeting Donnelly, Silas must care about me? What about Ghost? It’s so confusing.
And actually, I have bigger problems to worry about.
It’s been five days since the doctor broke the news to me, and I’ve seen nothing and heard nothing from her since. She didn’t say how long she’d be gone, and whenever I’ve gone to the medical room to check, it’s been empty.
I hope she returns soon, and with a plan of action. I need to figure out how the fuck I’m getting this chip out of me so I can get the hell off this island.
Preferably before my crew of deadly psychos figure out I’m knocked up with one of their babies in my belly.
YOU’RE MINE NOW, LITTLE PREY
‘PLAY WITH FIRE’ – SAM TINNESZ
KOOKABURRA
The buzzing of my phone wakes me from a fretful slumber. Nightmares have been plaguing me for days, each one more vivid and terrifying than the last. I fumble for the device on the nightstand, my fingers trembling as I unlock the screen. The digital clock reads 1:47 a.m., the room shrouded in darkness save for the dim glow of the screen.
With bleary eyes, I squint at the message notification. It’s from Hatchet, the one person who has been a constant source of comfort in this desolate place. The text is brief but confusing
Daddy Hatchet
Fancy a run?
Did he send this earlier?Or is this some kind of joke?
I yawn and stretch, contemplating ignoring it and going back to sleep, but then I pause.
My heart races as I read over his message again, a mix of excitement and anxiety coursing through me. His message is a flicker of light in the suffocating darkness of this asylum. Whatever he wants, I’m here for because it means a break from these four walls that have been driving me insane for days now.
His cryptic offer sends a shiver down my spine. Why on earth would he want to run in the dead of night?
Then it hits me as my brain slowly wakes up. Our earlier conversation from a few days ago. He said he liked to chase all kinds of prey, called me little bunny or rabbit or something. Said he’d been craving a taste of me.
Fuck yes.It’s just the distraction I need.
Careful not to make a sound, I slip out of bed, my feet landing on the soft, carpeted floor. The room is a shadowy maze, the light from my phone casting eerie shapes across the floor. I dress in silence, opting for dark, inconspicuous clothing that blends into the night, and running shoes I’ve not even used before now. Every creak of the floorboards beneath my feet feels like a betrayal, as if the very walls themselves are listening.
With my heart pounding, I make my way to the lift and press the button for the exit level, wondering if it’ll work. Once I was granted access to go wherever I pleased within the asylum, I didn’t feel much like exploring. I’ve used the lift plenty to get around, but I’ve not been snooping. Shame on me. Maybe there was a way off the island that I could have found.
I breathe a sigh of relief when the lift starts moving, and when the doors softly open and the scent of the forest and the chill of the night air hits me, I shiver.
Guided only by the faint moonlight filtering through the dense trees, I step out of the lift and stride across the lawn to the edge of the treeline. Each step is a delicate dance, an intricate ballet of silence and stealth. The asylum is eerily quiet at this hour, the only sounds the distant hum of machinery and the faint rustling of leaves outside.
I pause on the edge of the trees, wondering if I should step foot into the woods. Peering through the darkness, I look around for any signs of Hatchet. Any signs of life at all.
