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@e-n-leonard

Frey

My regular joke has never worked this well. Mara looks as though she’s seen as ghost. Usually, people just laugh and ignore it for the rest.

”Isaias always talked about miracles. He said they were still possible, but I didn’t believe him. But —“ Mara’s eyes are wide with shock as she gestures toward my legs. They still ache, though it’s slowly fading down to manageable.

Wait, she really believes me? Hadn’t the sarcasm been obvious? It takes everything in my power not to laugh. If I told her gullible had been taken out of the dictionary, she’d go check.

“You never know what’s possible,” I say. I consider it a miracle that I manage to keep my voice even without breaking into laughter. I relish the look of shock on her face.

She frowns and my heart drops. She’s figured it out.

“Why do you need the cane if you’re cured?”

“I keep it around as a manner of self-defense,” I say, somehow managing to keep my face straight throughout. I give a demonstrative sweep at someone imaginary and instantly regret it. The extra weight on my right leg sends another flash of pain through it. I grit my teeth and look down, before managing to flash Mara another grin.

The first grains of doubt are appearing on her face. But before I have the chance to address them, the stone wall beside us cracks, like a bone breaking. I flinch, placing too much weight on my hurting leg again. It’s coming closer, advancing at a speed I instantly tell I won’t be able to manage while walking, not now at least.

I make my decision and sit back down in my wheelchair, my cane still awkwardly splayed across my lap. I flick the locks off the wheels and push, right before the wall collides into us. Mara is strides ahead of me, her eyes wide with alarm.

“The room is shrinking?” she says. It’s the first time I’ve heard her truly rattled. So that’s something that will do it. She doesn’t like small spaces.

I’ve gotten into an odd habit of categorizing other people’s weaknesses. I mentally file this away. Who knows when it’ll come in handy.

“Undoubtedly,” I say. I’m not even surprised at this point, anything can happen here, it seems.

My shoulders ache with how quickly we have to move. I can keep up, but not by much. Mara is ungracefully close to scrambling away.

We hurry into the next room, right as the wall crashes into the doorway with a resounding, final sound. I’m grateful I didn’t get between the walls.

This room isn’t empty. People cluster around something that looks like an elongated stage, their anxiety knotting them together into clumps.

The room is dark, the only light is the artificial glare surrounding the stage.

Mara is wringing her hands, rocking from one foot to the other in her fear. It can’t possibly be that bad.

I grip the rails of my wheelchair. I hate the feeling that something is pushing us from one place to another, writing our stories for us. It has plans, and I don’t want to hear them.

The voice comes from the stones, echoing around every corner of the huge, empty room. The vibrations pulse through my fingertips like electricity, as though my wheelchair is shivering with fear. I shove down the urge to talk to it like it’s a worried beast.

“Well done!”

I don’t want any compliments from a disembodied voice that’s shoving us around. The vibrations seem to bounce around my chest, making me feel sick to my stomach.

“For this next challenge, I’ll be requiring each of you to part with your most prized belonging – and no, money doesn’t count.  Refusal to comply will result in mandatory participation in my upcoming fashion show.”

The lights flicker on, cutting through my eyes and seeming to lodge directly in my brain. I close my eyes, but the glare remains, and I cover them for good measure. The headache throbs through me and I mentally curse. That’s all I need, another headache.

Prized belonging? The phrase bounces around my mind, without sticking to anything. What do I value most? I don’t even know. I’m not that attached to my things. If I lose something, it’ll be inconvenient, but that’s it. Everything is replaceable, after all.

The names of others buzz around me, voices echoing it, complying or not. I don’t much care. I have myself to focus on.

“Frey Spurling.” The voice is as sharp as the light. I finally open my eyes. I will face whatever comes next, and I will win. I don’t lose.

“Yes?”

“Make your choice?”

“What choice?”

When in doubt, play dumb. That voice is so unnerving.

“You are perfectly aware of what I mean.”

“I am?”

Don’t agree to anything, and don’t give them ammunition.

“If you don’t comply, it will be assumed you choose for the fashion show.”

I run my hand through my hair. Now it probably stands up in strange places.

“Right, fashion show. What idiot chose that anyway? That’s the most juvenile punishment I can imagine.”

“The other choice is your most prized possession.”

I flick my hand, dismissing the statement.

“I caught that. But really, I believe this arrangement won’t work for me.”

“You’re in no place to argue.”

I knew I wasn’t, but that had never stopped me before. I could and would argue to my last breath.

“I’m glad you asked why,” I say, undisturbed. I steeple my fingers and purse my lips, thinking over how to phrase this. I take my time about it, the silence thick in the room.

“The ‘fashion show’ would be a far harsher punishment for me than for any of the others,” I say. “For the others, it’s mild humiliation at worst. For me, it would cause considerable pain in any case, if I can even get on the stage.”

“I’ll help!” Someone chirps from the wings of the stage. He’s peeping around the corner, clearly eavesdropping. He has bubblegum-pink hair and an excited expression. He reminds me of an over-eager puppy. I shoot him a glare. I didn’t want help, I wanted to argue.

“As you’ve heard, you will receive help from the others, therefor this argument is invalid. Considering the fact that you have not complied, your choice will be made for you.”

A ramp slides out on the far side of the stage. I could make it up there with my wheelchair, but I don’t want to. My face feels hot, mostly with anger, but at least partially with humiliation. I hate being forced into a situation like this. I was going to find some way to take back control, and the voice would be sorry.

@calidris XD