lost in the labyrinth of my mind

Chapter 12

Lucas was numb.

The blood was thick, sticky, and hot. But Lucas was so cold. He thought there might have been more pain. Lucas never thought a sword would have been driven through him, but paper cuts hurt more than this. He takes his hand from the wound, it gurgles, and his hands are red.

There's a girl. Max is her name, he thinks. She runs to him and helps him stand. Woah, he didn't even notice how unsteady he was. She's warm. This was nice.

He topples over. The ground feels so good. This is as good as any place to rest, a little cold. But it's just to close his eyes for a little while. His eyes are heavy. His mouth is dry: a sip of water would be good, maybe after his sleep.

There's a light beyond his eyes. This was okay. He was okay.

Carpet. Sweat. Bitter and sour. Plastic. Stale and mildew. Clogging dust.

Carpet.

Why does death smell like carpets?

There wasn't a carpet in the dungeon.

His eyes shoot open and wince: blinded by even the slightest of lights after candlelight and grimy underground lairs. Behind his eyelids, he knew the lights were a technicolour madness, and the noise surrounding him was discordant and upbeat. The Arcade. He was back in The Arcade.

He checks himself over. He is back in his clothes, not that weird fantasy get-up, there are no medieval weapons around, and there's no gaping wound on his abdomen. No pool of blood. No stickiness.

Lucas knows in the most rational, the take no-bullshit part of him that everything that happened while in the Game was fake. But that didn't make him feel better. It didn't make that fear and horror fade. It didn't make his hand stop shaking or his breath slows from its erratic pattern. Unlike any mundane nightmare, it won't take away the memory of dying.

He didn't have long to ruminate in his melancholia when Max, standing by the machine seemingly in a trance, tripped backwards and went down with a giant oomph.

She shot up like spring and started to attack the machine. She was a wild thing, all manic energy and lashing limbs.

He jumped to grab her from behind to stop her from hurting herself.

"No, I have to go back! I have to kill him! He needs to pay for what he did," Her voice breaks at the last word. She gathers herself, "You can't stop me. Let me go."

"Max, it isn't real," Lucas had said that word so many times, uttered that phrase: he wasn't sure if it had any value left. He cupped her face ensuring she couldn't pull her eyes away from his own, "Look: I'm fine. No one killed me. I'm not dead. But this is killing you."

She stilled. Which is worse. Lucas could see her state of her. Cheekbones jutted out of her face: almost as if they wanted to escape their fleshy prison. Her skin was translucent, only highlighted by the purple bruises encircling her eyes and red and green veins. Her hair felt like hay. He thought the wights had looked grotesque, but it was nothing compared to seeing a living corpse. To see Max as a living corpse.

"I'm fine," Her voice is pure iron. As much as it could be with her thin voice, Lucas did not doubt her intention.

"No. You can't push me away. I won't let you run from the truth. I'm not giving up on you."

"You should," Max whimpered, all fight leaving her body as she crumpled in his arms, "I got you killed."

Now that he held her, he could feel how thin Max was through the layers of clothing: it was fatal. He needed to get her out now. Lucas knows he hasn't always been the best with his words, but never before had it seemed more important to get it right.