I didn't open my eyes but I utilized the sound to fabricate relevant scenes in my cerebrum.
"No, not my baby!" the old woman let out a blood curdling scream.
Bang!
A second gunshot put the scream to an end and invited the silence.
Every inch of my muscle was in a non-stop vibration. Rest in peace to Ellen and her mother. I will never forget them, never will any of the other participants. A game. That was what I considered it now.
"Three finalists!" the thug declared, "Congratulations for making it this far."
He clapped his hands for a while in a way that suggested that he still held the gun.
"I have a few gifts for you."
I heard sounds that I recognized as of him taking off his hoodie and flinging onto a table.
I resisted a strong urge to open my eyes until he said, "Rule number five has been suspended for as long as I tell you."
I paid no attention to the numbering of the rules but I guessed with enormous confidence that rule five was the rule that prohibited us from looking at him. Therefore I opened my eyes prior to him saying, "You may look at me,"
I looked at him.
Behold, he stood beside the old woman's chair with his arms wide spread. He was clothed with a white wool tunic and a golden sash around his chest. The hairs of his head were white like white wool, like snow. yet his face told of someone not more than thirty-five years of age.
I exhaled and avoided his gaze.
"All humans are pathetic," He announced, "You will not survive either."
I stared up at him, our gaze met. I lowered my head. Great thanks to my consciousness, I remembered the fourth rule—no talking to him.
"However, I shall regard you as the least pathetic of all humans."
I felt his gaze.
He sat on the old woman's chair and added, "Let them enjoy some music for these last moments of their lives!"
Immediately the waitress came out with a large radio cassette. something I'd only seen in historical images, cinemas and old magazines.
The days of dance yobetcha, the elder people would say.
She placed it on the formerly the priest's and the dark suit man's table and inserted a tape. She pushed a few buttons. A song started. sad and somber. It blended perfectly with the atmosphere and I did not appreciate that.
Before vocals began I recognized the song. I glanced up at the thug, our gazes met as usual. The song was mine.
That song was not comforting nor motivating. It suited the situation quite well but I wished it wasn't this song. I wished she played, "I'm Gonna Fight Till I Die" or "I Gotta Succeed" or any of the plenty of my fight songs.
"People gonna die!" sorrow vocals of mine wailed from the cassette.
"Amen, Amen," backing vocals sounded.
the song went on like that—a repetition of the wailing vocals followed by the backing vocals for a chorus.
In the song I lamented about the coming destruction of humankind due to intolerable wickedness.
The song didn't do any good to us in our situation, just more harm. More sadness and fears.
"Enough!" the hijab woman shouted suddenly, "I have had enough of this hell, this torture."
Adrenaline rushed through my body. Extreme fear gripped me violently and tightly.
"Are you talking to me?" The thug asked.