The Last Chair
M.R. WardBree Van Winkle loved playing musical chairs when she was seven. The game was her favorite and always provided endless laughter and amusement with her childhood friends. But now the game, like her life, was ugly and twisted. There were no smiles or excitement on the faces of those who played—and died—here today, only despair and blood.
Bree stepped over a severed arm with each rotation. The c*****e didn’t bother her anymore. She convinced herself over the course of the death match that she was simply watching a cheesy horror flick with realistic props. None of this could possibly be real, but it was, and she was almost at the finish line. Her heartbeat escalated, as did her anxiety.
She glanced at the riddle on the wall again: When your prize is just within reach
