Playing God (Helford #2)

(1) Snow

Hello. This is the rewrite of Playing God. Most of what you may have read in the first draft has been scrapped, or thrown away, so try to forget what you read and start anew. The plot is different, and the character development will be much less rushed and true to form. Thank you for your patience; the other chapters will be uploaded as I write them, which should only take a handful of weeks.

This is not a necessary sequel. If you are not happy with what I have done with the changes, then you don’t have to read it to understand anything in the ending or plot of the first story, Toy Soldiers.

Thanks for reading.

x Riley

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“It’s snowing.”

Eighteen years of life, and I still hold this fascination toward something as simple as snow. Even now I leaned toward the window as if I wanted to be outside, but I knew better than to put myself into the vulnerable position of standing defenselessly in the middle of a clearing. I wanted to feel the snow on my skin, to mold it, to destroy it. I suppose, as in many aspects of my life, I simply wanted to play God. To build and destroy, to create and erase. I couldn’t bask in beauty when I knew it would ultimately lead to my evil.

“Focus, Caitie.”

“That’s not my name,” I argued feebly, my mind fuzzy and incoherent from drugs pumping through my veins. I got lazy, stayed in one place for too long, and now I am here.

The white of the snow melted in with the white of the walls.

My companion sighed heavily, but there was a hint of a chuckle, like he was trying hard not to be amused at my antics. I moved my bleary eyes away from the window of falling sky and back to him, squinting. The light was starting to take a toll on the pounding behind my left temple.

Woodburn leaned closer to me, his hands on his knees, his eyes patient. “Do you know what happened to you?”

“I fell,” I mumbled. “From a . . . helicopter?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. From a helicopter. How long ago was it?”

“From now? Approximately . . . eighty-three hours, give or take.”

“Exactly eighty-three hours.” He leaned back with his hand over his mouth, like he was holding back what he wanted to say. He sat there like that for a moment that felt like a lifetime before he leaned back toward me, his game face on. “What is your name?”

“Gemma,” I told him.

“No,” he said. “Your name is Caitie.”

“It’s not real,” I slurred. “They gave it to me.”

“They almost found you because you checked in with your true name. Did you know that? When they asked you for your name, you gave them your real name.”

“What else would I have given them?”

“Anything. Anything but Caitie. Anything but Gemma.”

“That’s my name,” I objected.

He grabbed my arm and said, “Not anymore.”

I was getting a headache talking to him. The room was spinning and his words were starting to blur together like they were all a part of the same sentence and I didn’t like the way he was looking at me. There was fear and sadness, and there was pity; I hated pity the most of all, felt the most hatred toward him because of that pity. Woodburn tried to wipe it away with his hands, but his face would never truly be a blank slate. He would always leave something behind.