text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy, fantasy]
  
  Childhood
  
  A fist thuds into your face, knocking you to the ground. Gruzub stands over you, laughing.
  
  "Mazkil! You are as weak as a Shepard!" He laughs, as you leap to you feet.
  
  > kick him
  You kick Gruzub, knocking his leg away. He falls to the ground and you quickly kick him twice in the stomach before he manages to roll away and take up another fighting stance. As you prepare to charge him, you hear a deep voice.
  
  "CHILDREN! Your mother struggles to soothe the little one while your brother hunts sheep. This is no time for playing. There is work to be done! Inside!" Your father bellows.
  
  > go inside
  You quickly hurry inside, followed by your twin brother. You live in a small village of small huts. Luckily enough, you father is Chieftain Magrash, which entitles you to sleep in the Chieftain's Hut, the largest hut. As you enter, you see your father sitting in a rough woolen tunic, sharpening his greatsword. In front of him is his heavy steel plate armor, as well as several trophies from his battles.
  
  "Mazkil, Gruzub, you fight too much. Mama is trying to put Dagden to sleep."
  
  "Yes, papa." You both reply.
  
  "Who won the fight?" He asks.
  
  "I did!" You both say, before glaring at each other.
  
  "You don't know? Perhaps you're not fighting enough. Gruzub, go down to the river and fetch water for the stew. Mazkil, sharpen my sword. I need light the hearth."
  
  You go over to the sword, and begin to sharpen it against the whet stone, while looking over your father's trophies: An Elven Dagger, a Shrunken head, a battered golden shield, a shattered battleaxe, a studded mace, a series of Tribal Necklaces and a Dragon Skull.
  
  "Papa?"
  
  "Yes?"
  
  "Can you tell me about your trophies?" You ask.
  
  "I've told you many times about my trophies."
  
  "Tell me again."
  
  Papa chuckles, a harsh sound you've come to love.
  
  "Which would you like to know about?"[Themes: fan fiction, psychological, horror]
  
  Everything hurts.
  
  Waking up is as bad as it usually is. Aches and pains along with a soured stomach are things you expect after chasing the dragon, though you usually don't have a screaming headache like the one currently pounding beneath your skull. The floor beneath you is cold and dirty, concrete that hasn't been cleaned in years. This isn't the first time you've woken up in some abandoned building you can't remember going to, but as your eyes slowly come into focus you aren't so sure if this really is the norm or not.
  
  The light in the room comes from candles placed around the place, sitting on pieces of abandoned furniture, crates, and tables. The walls are decrepit, covered in graffiti and stained filth. It wasn't really that unusual to wake up in a place like this. Junkies love abandoned buildings and it is kind of nice to ride out a high in a nice candlelit room instead of a pitch black one. Whoever set out the candles didn't think to toss down a mattress though, a shame really.
  
  You don't quite feel like getting up just yet, but the sooner you do the sooner you can make some cash to score another dose.
  
  Standing up, you flap your arms a bit in an attempt to rid yourself of the numb, tingling sensation that seems ever present in them now. You really should start injecting elsewhere, but what does it really matter at this point? The crooks of your elbows look like shit and that won't change. Sure it hurts like a bitch to stick a needle there now, but the reward after is worth it.
  
  Looking around at the flickering candles, you notice that there are pictures hanging from the ceiling on strings or placed around the candles. Shuffling toward one half rotten table, you pick up one of the photographs. It isn't easy to see in the dim lighting, but as you hold it up in one hand and a candle in the other you recognize it. It's been years since you've seen this picture. A family portrait from when you were just a kid. One corner of it is torn, effectively removing one person from the picture.
  
  Swearing under your breath, you pick up other pictures and frown as you see that all of them are of you or people you know. Childhood photos of yourself and your parents, pictures of an old boyfriend, pictures of friends you haven't heard from in a decade or more.
  
  As you continue sorting through all of the photographs, you come across a tape recorder with a small cassette already loaded inside of it.
  
  > listen To The Tape
  Pressing the play button, you hear a voice start speaking from the recording. It's clearly been distorted, but you can hear the words well enough.
  
  "Hello, Ciara. For most of your life, you have been a victim. But, you have never truly tried to rise above this victim status you have held for so long. Within this room, are photographs of your childhood. Your pictures progress from a happy little girl to that of a criminal, but what fueled this change? For years you have been too busy blaming others and using past wrongs against you as an excuse for your own misdeeds. Today, you will face your inner demons. Beyond the door of this room wait a series of tests. But, first, you must prove to yourself that your life is worth more than the addiction that rules it. The door out is locked and the key is within your reach, so is your drug of choice. Will you reach for the key to your freedom or will you stay a slave to your addiction? Live or die, Ciara, make your choice."
  
  The tape goes silent as you feel fear start to take over the haze of cravings and the pounding of the migraine in the back of your skull. Looking around, you spot the door and hurry to it. Just as the tape said, it is locked with a heavy bolt. You've never seen a door like this before, it's solid steel and doesn't budge when you push against it. The bolt has a keyhole in it, but you don't see a key anywhere.
  
  Looking around, all you can see are pictures hanging up illuminated by the flickering candlelight, some photographs on a crate surrounding by a circle of candles on the floor, and what looks like a binder laying on the floor in a dark corner of the room.
  
  > look At The Photographs On The Crate
  Walking over the crate encircled by candles, you pick up a few of the pictures on top. They're all family pictures of you and your parents, plus a few with old friends from your childhood. All people that you have long since left behind. What good had any of them ever done you after all? It certainly seems fitting that they are here in picture form to mock you while you are trapped in this room.
  
  As you pick up the last picture you find yourself staring at a picture of you and your stepfather. His arm is laxily draped over your shoulder and he smiles for the camera, you smile as well for the picture. But there is a tenseness to your face. Flipping it over, you see there is a note scrawled on the back in neat handwriting.
  
  Look beneath the facade
  
  Frowning, you glance around the room again. It isn't that hard to follow the note's instructions. You had spent your entire childhood maintaining a facade, you can see through it in every single picture here. The forced smiles, the tense posture, the baggy clothing that covers everything. Your childhood had been a lesson in learning to not stand out, to not be pretty. To just go unnoticed as much as possible and survive long enough to see a better life.
  
  That better life had never come though.
  
  Looking down again, you realize that the pictures on top of the crate had hidden a small hole beneath them which has a flashlight settled down inside it. Picking up the flashlight you flip it on, glad for the extra light. Aiming it about the room, you are able to spot a corner of the room that was previously unlit. There are what looks like two glass boxes there.
  
  > The Choice
  Walking over to the corner of the room, you find two glass boxes filled with what looks like razor wire. Bending down you shine the flashlight into the first box, trying to see through all of the wire and spotting something in the back of it. Craning your neck you eventually are able to make out a key at the back of the box. A quick study of the other box reveals a syringe at the end of it.
  
  That sick feeling in your stomach is back, making bile rise up inside your throat. Sticking your hand inside either box is going to be extremely painful. A thought slides into your mind that it may be for the best if you just go for the syringe. Dying doesn't really concern you if you're completely honest with yourself. You've been gambling with your own life for a decade now. Clinging on to another year or two of prostitution, robbery, and drugs seems so pointless. Maybe one last high and dying here in this room surrounded by pictures and candles wouldn't be so bad? It certainly would be a kinder death than what may await you out on the streets or an overdose.
  
  But, life is life. Maybe if you make it out of this place you can hang on for another few years. You're past the point of telling yourself that you will check into a rehab somewhere. You won't do it and you don't care to lie to yourself anymore. But a few more years of life sounds less scary than being entombed in this place forever.
  
  > reach For The Heroin
  One last high doesn't sound so bad and you can always go for the key later after all.
  
  Slowly, you start to push your hand into the box. At first, the wires only graze your hand but once you are wrist deep into the box the razors start to cut into your skin. It's a sharp pain that's all too familiar, but you push past it. You feel a sharp wire cut into the soft flesh between your fingers and you have to pull back a bit to find your way through the maze of razor wires.
  
  It feels as if your skin is being peeled off, making you cry out as you make one final shove toward the back of the box. Elbow deep in the box, it feels as if a hundred knives are cutting into your forearm, blood drips down onto the floor from the opening of the box. After feeling about with your blood slicked fingers, you finally feel the syringe.
  
  Gripping it as best you can, you pull backward but the string holding the syringe in place holds fast. Gritting your teeth, you pull back steadily as the razor wires cut deeper into your flesh on the way back out. Suddenly it gives and you nearly fall backward before the syringe's string goes taut again after only a few inches of slack. Only your hand is inside the box now, still tightly gripping your prize.
  
  Tugging at it, you cuss in frustration as it holds fast before you notice a quiet ticking sound coming from the box. Frowning, you lean down and peer inside past your hand. You can't see anything, but the sound is definitely coming from the back of the contraption. Yanking on the syringe again, you try to pull the prize free but it just won't give as you try to see what it is caught on.
  
  The ticking stops and you pause for a moment before a gunshot rings out in the room. Searing hot pain rips through your face as you fall flat onto your back from the impact. There is a ringing in your ears and a stench of something burning in your nose. It feels as if you have just inhaled fire, the inside of your mouth feels burnt and so does your throat. Reaching your uninjured hand up to your face you feel the part of it that hurts.
  
  Panic starts to run through you as you realize there is a hole where your cheek once was. Blood is pouring out from your face and the hole is too big for you to cover it with just your one hand. Bringing the hand up you freeze when you see the state of it. Strips of your skin dangle from your hand and forearm were the razor wire had ripped it clean off the flesh. You can see the exposed tendons working in your hand as you flex your fingers.
  
  Looking around, you can't see anything in the darkness of the room. The candles have nearly burned themselves out, it won't be long now before you are plunged into true darkness. You try to call for help but all that comes out is a wet gurgle and a lot of pain.