a fight, but no matter how hard you try to hit the other person, you keep pulling your punches. It’s as if you’re fighting underwater. You make yourself powerless.
Dreams are not something that happen to us. Nightmares do not make us victims. These are things we bring on ourselves, things we know we deserve. We say the harsh word that will end the friendship. We commit the careless transgression that will destroy the love affair and push that last button that will alienate the family member. We take the wrong turn that will lead us into the bad neighborhood. We place that one last charge on the credit card. We do it to ourselves .
Which is why that moment hits so hard. Why those final words hurt so badly. Why that closing door sounds so final.
Because no matter how much we deny it, we know it was our fault.
Damico stared at the flaming brassieres, and he finally accepted it. He knew where he was. He knew he’d gone mad. He knew this was a final fate, or Hell itself, or a living delirium.
He was in Carl’s game.
Forced to live in the worst game ever. Forced to stand here and live out every terrible moment, to know the truth.
This couldn’t possibly be real. He’d gone mad. He’d slipped the surly bonds of sanity and touched the face of clod.
And because it couldn’t be real, he knew he had done it to himself. This is the way the world ends; this is the way the world ends; this is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but with a gibber.
Insane.
To Sartre, Hell was other people. To the game designer, Hell was the game .
He had to find his way out. He had to claw his way out. He had to scream and fight and hack his way out. If necessary, he had to beg his way out. He had to, no matter what it would take. He had to get out if it was the last thing he did.
Because he lay somewhere bleeding and alone at the mercy of the man who’d shot him. Carl had used a silencer, and that meant no one was coming. He’d have had time to hide the body in that Texas-sized trunk and wash the blood into the gutters. No one would know. No one would help. He had to get out.
And there was nothing funny about that.
Chapter Four
“Inventing a clever quote for each chapter is difficult. I’m not going to do it anymore.”
—Bob Defendi
here are laws of the universe: Nature abhors a vacuum, but it abhors an atmosphere more, so check your suit seals.
There are laws of romance: You can ruin the most romantic mood by calling out the name of another woman. You can absolutely shatter it by calling out the name of another man.
There are laws of the land: Bullets fired at a cop will return to you sevenfold.
And there are rules of storytelling: Do not tell, show.
So let’s break that one and save us all the tritest scene in fiction. What I tell you three times is true. Hraldolf was a bad man; Hraldolf was a bad man; Hraldolf was a bad man. Believe me? No? All right, I’ll show you, but you brought this on yourself.
Hraldolf sat in a hall of immense power. Beneath him cowered a throne made of blackened bones. Behind rose a xylophone of glimmering ribs arching off a backbone that would make the most honest chiropractor start shopping for a boat. It culminated in a tail that snaked into the air. The seat was to vertebrates what the Bikini Atoll test was to firecrackers.
Hraldolf rested both elbows on the arm bones of the vanquished, and his hands rested on the skulls of two creatures that would make Roger Corman start sketching like mad. It had fangs to say the least. Smilodon people .
Hraldolf didn’t consider the throne. It was an extension of his body. He didn’t consider the room that should have belonged to a galactic overlord. He didn’t consider the priceless paintings on the wall. He didn’t notice the tasteful pillars or the majestic ceiling or the plastic carpet that was brown not because it was a tasteful color, but because eventually blood dried .
He certainly didn’t notice the guards. They were
Dreams are not something that happen to us. Nightmares do not make us victims. These are things we bring on ourselves, things we know we deserve. We say the harsh word that will end the friendship. We commit the careless transgression that will destroy the love affair and push that last button that will alienate the family member. We take the wrong turn that will lead us into the bad neighborhood. We place that one last charge on the credit card. We do it to ourselves .
Which is why that moment hits so hard. Why those final words hurt so badly. Why that closing door sounds so final.
Because no matter how much we deny it, we know it was our fault.
Damico stared at the flaming brassieres, and he finally accepted it. He knew where he was. He knew he’d gone mad. He knew this was a final fate, or Hell itself, or a living delirium.
He was in Carl’s game.
Forced to live in the worst game ever. Forced to stand here and live out every terrible moment, to know the truth.
This couldn’t possibly be real. He’d gone mad. He’d slipped the surly bonds of sanity and touched the face of clod.
And because it couldn’t be real, he knew he had done it to himself. This is the way the world ends; this is the way the world ends; this is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but with a gibber.
Insane.
To Sartre, Hell was other people. To the game designer, Hell was the game .
He had to find his way out. He had to claw his way out. He had to scream and fight and hack his way out. If necessary, he had to beg his way out. He had to, no matter what it would take. He had to get out if it was the last thing he did.
Because he lay somewhere bleeding and alone at the mercy of the man who’d shot him. Carl had used a silencer, and that meant no one was coming. He’d have had time to hide the body in that Texas-sized trunk and wash the blood into the gutters. No one would know. No one would help. He had to get out.
And there was nothing funny about that.
Chapter Four
“Inventing a clever quote for each chapter is difficult. I’m not going to do it anymore.”
—Bob Defendi
here are laws of the universe: Nature abhors a vacuum, but it abhors an atmosphere more, so check your suit seals.
There are laws of romance: You can ruin the most romantic mood by calling out the name of another woman. You can absolutely shatter it by calling out the name of another man.
There are laws of the land: Bullets fired at a cop will return to you sevenfold.
And there are rules of storytelling: Do not tell, show.
So let’s break that one and save us all the tritest scene in fiction. What I tell you three times is true. Hraldolf was a bad man; Hraldolf was a bad man; Hraldolf was a bad man. Believe me? No? All right, I’ll show you, but you brought this on yourself.
Hraldolf sat in a hall of immense power. Beneath him cowered a throne made of blackened bones. Behind rose a xylophone of glimmering ribs arching off a backbone that would make the most honest chiropractor start shopping for a boat. It culminated in a tail that snaked into the air. The seat was to vertebrates what the Bikini Atoll test was to firecrackers.
Hraldolf rested both elbows on the arm bones of the vanquished, and his hands rested on the skulls of two creatures that would make Roger Corman start sketching like mad. It had fangs to say the least. Smilodon people .
Hraldolf didn’t consider the throne. It was an extension of his body. He didn’t consider the room that should have belonged to a galactic overlord. He didn’t consider the priceless paintings on the wall. He didn’t notice the tasteful pillars or the majestic ceiling or the plastic carpet that was brown not because it was a tasteful color, but because eventually blood dried .
He certainly didn’t notice the guards. They were
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