Disconnected

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Summary

Six months ago, Inessa Luck watched as her brother was murdered. Six months ago, she closed the door to the game and the monsters within it. Six months ago, she swore she'd never go back. But, when the monsters decide to turn on the boy she loves, she has no choice but to return to the game one final time to save him. The problem? If she goes in, she may never be allowed back out. Trapped within the game, Inessa is entered into a macabre competition in which her death is the prize every player has their eyes on. Will she last till the end of the week, or will she be destined to suffer the same gory fate as her brother?

Genre:
Scifi / Romance
Author:
S. K. Randhawa
Status:
Ongoing
Chapters:
7
Rating:
n/a
Age Rating:
16+

Character Quotes

I opened my eyes slightly to be greeted with the sight of his closed eyes, a small frown between his eyebrows. It was as if he was focusing on the kiss so much that he’d forgotten how to smile.


As a child, I could’ve never imagined how difficult this would’ve been. Back then, life was all about colour and laughter, twirling about so my skirt billowed around me, sitting in the sun and playing with sand. The roaring sound of the ocean, the feeling of warmth spreading through my heart-love. That’s what life was about.

But now, that image had aged badly. Now I’m a lost teenager, who’s life was dull and filled without that previous vibrancy that life was supposed to bring. My skirt no longer billowed, the sun no longer shone. The ocean no longer roared, and the sand no longer felt as warm as it had before. Everything felt numb, cold-hate. That’s what this life was about.


“Well I’m sick of being polite! Sick of being polite, smiling through insults, staying silent whenever someone hurts me. I’m fucking sick of always laughing along when in reality? In reality, I’m fucking *breaking* inside. When in reality, their words leave scars. If I have to fake smile one more time, I swear to God, I’m going to fucking puke.”


I rolled over to where Jason laid, wrapping my arms around his middle from behind. “Do you wanna make some toast?”

He turned, stretching as he blinked a few times in the dull light of his watch. “It’s 1am in the morning.”

“Your point?”

“Of course I want toast.”


“Do you know that feeling when you find a song you like? It crops up every so often, and each time you listen, you can’t help fall for it a little more. You listen to it until you can’t even remember when you first heard it, until your thoughts and memories become intertwined with the lyrics. Pieces of you filter into it as you listen, so much so that it feels like your heart beats along to the song’s base, as if the tune hums within your veins like blood, as if you exhale the very essence of the song. It happens so much that it becomes familiar to your world, like ink to a well, like wine to a glass… that’s what it felt like with you. You were my music, you were my tune, but you left, and took parts of me with you, pieces that I didn’t even realise existed. I know it’s been years, but ever since you left, the song hasn’t sounded the same.”


I didn’t register the sound of the sound of the roaring ocean, didn’t flinch under the feel of the cold waves lapping over my legs. Didn’t care that the sea water and sand were ruining my white dress. Didn’t mind the fact that he still stood over me, watching and waiting for me to move.

Because I wouldn’t.

I couldn’t.

I’d be surprised if I were ever able to leave this place again.

I wasn’t trapped physically, but mentally. As though someone had taken all thoughts of freedom and caged them somewhere I couldn’t reach. As though the only thing left was this beach, this view, this feeling of absolute nothingness. This feeling of sinking deeper and deeper into my own mind, as though I were water from a spilt glass, seeping through the cracks on the ground.

“I won. I told you I’d win, one day.”

“You did.” I whispered. “You did tell me.”

He towered over me from behind, his clear blue eyes focused on my broken figure on the ground. “He’s gone.”

I closed my eyes, breathing in slowly. It felt as though each breath I took in deepened the cracks in my heart, the slender arms slowly reaching away from the circumference. If they made it to the edge, my heart would shatter.

“I hate you.” I whispered.

Liam crouched down before me. I refused to meet his eyes.

He lifted my chin, staring at me. “And I love you.”


I held his face in my hands, staring into his sharp grey eyes. “I know: it’s not. It’s not logical, it *doesn’t* make sense, and this is most *certainly* isn’t sane. But maybe that’s the good part! The mad part: the part when you fall, when you drop without even knowing what’s below. Maybe that’s the feeling I *want.*” He lowered his eyes to finally meet mine. “Maybe you’re the feeling I need.” I whispered.


Because aren’t we all just animals? Animals, fighting for the truth of love, of desire, wonder


Hold me until I fall, hold me until I shatter,

Kiss me like I’m yours, kiss me like I’m all that really matters.


There was a subtle sadness about her, an aura of melancholy longing: as though she desperately wanted to say something, to do something-to *be* something-but there was always something holding her back.

Maybe her paint was too grey, her canvas too uninspiring, her passion too desperate, for no matter what she did, no matter what she became, there was always someone better, someone brighter, someone more vibrant than her.

No matter how many times she rose from the ashes, no matter how painfully she burned, people always simply wanted something *more*.

She was too grey, too dull, too alone, too fearful and too easy to leave for anyone to truly stay, to truly see the kaleidoscope of colours she held within.


The worst part of life, is the passing of it. In the book of life, you're not allowed to turn back the pages or reread the same sentence. The words are crossed out in black ink the moment you've read them: it doesn't matter if you weren't paying attention or missed them. Life doesn't care. The book may be yours, and you may be able to control the pace you read it at, but that black marker belongs to life. It chases you onto the next sentence, the next page, the next chapter, never allowing you to re-enter where you were before, never letting you return to the past. Life is ever-passing, and no matter how much we may miss the past, there's never any going back.



Life, I think, is like the weather. It changes, it ebbs, it flows, it repeats in and endless cycle of hot and cold, hopeful and sad, going around and around in an endless circle of sun and rain until we die.

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