The White Games

8) Chapter Eight

#8 Clarice Barron – Day Two - 4:28 PM

Damn that girl.

Damn my carelessness.

Damn Mr. White.

Damn that girl.

Damn everything.

I gasp with effort as I stumble down the streets, far from the house where I fought Anne. I had sprained my ankle with that leap, but things could be worse. I didn't break my ankle, and I managed to escape with both my life and a new knife.

I clutch this hard-won prize close to my chest. My left arm hangs limply at my side, courtesy of the knife I hold with my right. Anne was an expert with that throw, but if she had been only a smidgen better...I'd be dead.

I could be dead now, if I don't find cover. I'm weak and exposed. The other Challengers will see me as easy prey, and while I'd fight my hardest and certainly leave a few scars for them to remember me by, I very much doubt I'd get out of any battle alive.

So staying out of sight is a must.

I turn off the street, limping towards the nearest house. It's big and blue, with a steeped wooden roof and wide crystalline windows. It looks fancier then the last one I hid in. Hopefully that means I won't be discovered like that last time.

Climbing the stairs to the house, I try to keep as much weight off my foot as possible. Every step is agony, but I force myself on. I refuse to die here. I've faced worse then this.

The sky-blue door swings inwards, allowing me to shamble into the high-ceiling foyer. The overwhelming scent of oak wood touches my nose the moment I step inside. There's a grand staircase to the right, but I walk past this, heading through a low-arched door and stumbling into a kitchen.

I limp over to the table and slip, only catching the tables end keeps me upright. "Damn...Anne..." I pant, lying my head down against the striped tablecloth. If only I had noticed her sneaking into the house...then I could have set a trap and detained her. Not killed, no. Mr. White's stupid rule prevents me from killing her. But I could have trapped her, wounded her. I grab at my arm and wince. She is a tough opponent. I'll need to take her out eventually to win.

Several minutes pass. I find a dry cloth in a drawer and wet it with the sink, carefully cleaning my wounded arm. The cut is deep. I need help. An infection would be the very last thing I need. It could kill me quicker then another knife. I need antibiotics.

I ransack the house. Check the cupboards and drawers. The fridge. Wardrobes in the bedrooms. The house is large, holding many rooms. I go through them all, limping and muttering when I find things of little value. It's not until I check behind the mirror in the upstairs bathroom do I find what I seek.

Bottles of pills, rolls of bandages, and jars of ointment. Stacks of them. I laugh lightly and grab the closest one, seeing that it is used to treat infections. I screw the cap open and stare at the clear liquid inside, a heavy anti-septic smell stings my nostrils. This is going to hurt.

I brace my wounded arm on the table and grit my teeth together as, with my one good arm, I pour the liquid onto it. I twitch from the sudden pain, like a dozen bee's stinging at once, and accidentally splash some of the precious medicine on the floor. I scoop the bottle back up and set it on the counter, grabbing a bandage roll and separating it with my teeth. Then I wrap the cottony roll around my forearm and relax.

It's dealt with. For now. I am certain I will have to change the dressing and reapply the medicine later, but for now I'm good to go. I breathe a sigh of relief, resting on the cold tiles and lying my head against the edge of the tub.