His lips are stretched into a smile when I look up at his mask. His eyes have no mercy. “It’s over, Red. It’s over.”
I don’t relax. I continue to buck and scream in the hope that someone, anyone, will hear me.
The sound of the leaves separating and being destroyed beneath me as he drags my body across the ground will be the last sound I hear. He offers no mercy for my ankles as his fingers continue to dig into my raw skin. He whistles his eerie tune, and although I’m bucking my body and twisting against him with everything I’ve got, it’s pointless because he remains in control.
He drops my legs, and even though my mind shouts at me to get up and run I’m unable to move. The sky, a brilliant blue, is so clear I can’t see a single cloud. I stare, keeping my eyes attached to the vision, and as I do I decide that no matter how painful things become, or how frightened I am as I die, I will think of this sky and remember how my life was once as vibrant as it is.
I heave each breath with rising panic. Tears drip from the corners of my eyes as I let my exhaustion finally take over and accept that this is what it is—a game I can’t win no matter how hard I try. I want more than anything to be stronger, to try harder, but I’ve conceded the fact that this will be the end of my life.
His masked face invades my view as he stands above me. My chest rises and then falls with force. I try not to whimper out loud, but it proves impossible and a wounded sound projects from my parted lips. Blue eyes that should belong to an angel, become too much to look at, so I don’t. Instead, I close my eyes and block him from my vision.
“Look at me.”
I focus on each frantic breath I take.
“Red, look at me now.” He raises his voice.
“No.” It’s barely audible.
“Look at me, or I’ll pry your eyes open and rip your eyeballs from your head.”
I cry.
“Now,” he snaps.
I flutter my eyelids open to be faced with irises that are large and gleaming with satisfaction. He’s disguised so much of himself, but this enjoyment, the one causing his eyes to smile down at me, this is as plain as day to see.
“Well, Morgan, here we are.” He leans farther over me. “The hunt for you has been more exciting than I could have hoped for. You did better than I expected. I feel pride for unlocking some fight in you.” He takes a deep breath. “But as always, you had to go and fuck everything up.”
I hate this man, a man I once lusted for, more than anything. The one I cared to write to for years after we parted ways. If I could find the strength to lift my leg right now, I’d kick him in his balls and then rip his fucking head off with my bare hands.
“How did you like my game, Morgan? Was it fun?” His words are filled with derision.
I say nothing, and concentrate on the few final breaths that will part from my lips.
“Oh, no. The cat got your tongue again?”
The sound of cars racing by drowns out my breathing. “I hate you,” I manage to sob.
“And I fucking loathe you.” A bellowing laugh follows as he digs the butt of his rifle into the ground and uses it as an aid to lower himself until he’s straddling my waist, his weight cutting the blood supply to my legs. Is he hurt?
“You’re a monster.” It’s a hushed whisper.
His eyes narrow. “Well, that’s true.” There’s an unexpected anger in his tone. “This is your last chance to leave here alive. Are you ready to answer my final question?”
He holds the rifle an inch from my nose.
My breath launches into my throat. “Yes.” It’s barely audible.
“Who am I, Red?”
My lips quiver. “Falcon Sampson,” I whisper, sniffing back tears.
He removes his weight from my waist until he’s pulled himself upright and towers above me with his rifle aimed between my eyes. “Wrong answer, Morgan,” he finally says when I regather my sight.
How can that be?
“You’re lying.” My voice shakes.
“Morgan, Morgan, Morgan. How stupid are you really? How the fuck could I be Falcon? You tell me.”
Confusion rushes through my mind like a jet in pursuit of invasion. “It’s you.”
“You know shit, Morgan. Shut your stupid mouth,” he spits, pressing the barrel of the rifle hard into my forehead.
Every muscle in my body tenses as I become too scared to breathe.
“Falcon is dead, and if you ever cared for him you would have known that.”
“Please stop,” I yell with my hands wrapping around the end of his gun.
“You killed him, Morgan.”
“I didn’t. You have the wrong person. I didn’t even know he died. I’ve never taken a life.”
“Oh yes, you have. You destroy lives. You killed him, and now you’ll pay and suffer just like he had to.” The rifle that could blast my life away with one pull of its trigger is yanked from my grip and shifted from my head. He lifts one leg and presses his boot lightly onto my chest. “Who am I, Morgan?”
“I don’t know,” I cry.
He shoves his foot down harder against my sternum, which threatens to crumble under the weight. “You were supposed to remember your wrongs, but you fucked up my game. You fucked up my life. You fucked up everything.” He pauses. “If you had let me put you through all the tests I had set up for you, then you would know now that you deserve it. You’d be wanting me to kill you, begging me to.”
“Please, let me go,” I pant, winded. The need to fire words of hatred fills me, but I can’t speak because the pressure of his boot against my chest increases to the point where air doesn’t seem to be able to enter my throat.
“Who am I, Morgan?” he asks again, but I have no idea who the hell he is. He lifts his foot from my chest only to stomp it down beside my head, causing me to jolt. He nestles the rifle under his armpit. “Will this give you the answer?”
He uses his free hand to reach down to the bottom of the mask he wears. Slowly, he peels it back. Blond stubble covers his chin, and when the mask finally parts from his head I see his thick blond locks.
I swallow a loud gulp.
“Well.” His lips stretch across his face.
“The … the … you’re … I never… I’ve never done anything to you.”
“Are you sure?” His straight white teeth become more visible as his smile grows. “Who am I?”
“You’re from the news.” I’m confused. I don’t know this man other than through my television set.
“Am I though?” His thick, light eyebrows dip inwards.
I cry.
“I mean, that’s one of my jobs. But this will make you see.” He slides his hand down his side until he reaches the bottom of his shirt. With one hand, he jerks the material from his body.
I gasp.
Inked skin. Blues, greens, yellows, and oranges all sit inside the black lines of a large tattooed jester taking up the right-hand side of his chest. I know the cheeky smile on its face, and the hook-shaped keloid scar above the jester’s hat. That scar was caused in an accident from a boat’s propeller. Finally, I have my answer.
Life is just a circus. The words are written under the tattoo. I shriek in horror and screw my eyes tightly shut to try delete the image.
“Who am I?” he speaks softly.
“Logan!” I croak out. I want to say more, but I choke on my own tongue.
“Logan Raffety the Third, to be precise,” he chortles. “Known to all in this bullshit town, and all over, in fact, as Gregory Stiles from Channel Sixty-One.”
“Why? Why are you doing this, Logan? Why are your eyes blue and not brown? Why do you look like this?”
“For you. I came to get payback.” He lowers himself down until he kneels with either leg on each side of my torso.
“I didn’t do—”