Et spil om overlevelse

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.
'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.
"You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."
Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.
"This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"
He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."
"The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.
"Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."
Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"
"Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."
Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.
"If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"
Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."
"Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...
"You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."
Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"
"Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."
Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.
"Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."
Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.
"Tell me what I need to do."
Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."
Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.
"The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."
The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.
"Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.
"Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."
The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.
"Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."
Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.
"Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."
"What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.
"A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."
"And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.
"He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."
Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.
"He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."
The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.
"Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."
Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.
"He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."
As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.
Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."
"What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"
Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.
"He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"
Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"
"If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."
As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.
The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.
"Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."
The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.
"He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"
Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"
"Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."
Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...
They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.
"His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."
Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.
"The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.
As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.
"Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"
Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."
The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."
The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."
"By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."
The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."
Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.
"Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"
Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.
With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.
"Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."
"No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."
For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.
The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.
What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.
"Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."
The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...
They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.
"We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."
Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."
Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."
As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.
She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.
A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'
The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.
"We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."
The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."
"He's attacking multiple targets at once?"
"No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."
Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"
"A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.
"Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."
"I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."
She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.
"Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."
She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.
"The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."
A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.
"He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...
She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.
"Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."
The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.
"Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."
"The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."
"Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"
"It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."
"Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"
Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."
As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.
The true game was about to begin.

Advarsel om indhold

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ADVARSEL OM INDHOLD
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Bemærk venligst: De andre bogverdener, der henvises til i denne serie, blev gjort med tilladelse fra forfatterne.

Spilleliste

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Spilleliste

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Du kaLn* lryVtBte héerb

De fleste piger - Hailee Steinfeld

Hailey - WRENN

Better Than Revenge - Taylor Swift

ALlvl theq zFiucksitnPg! ÉTQiDmeS - LwoXoteq

Skin - Sabrina Carpenter

Fuck You - Don Vedda

STAY - The Kid LAROI & Justin Bieber

HJowod_iQe Z- hHSeyB VmiZoQlqet&

Sex With Me - TRAMP STAMPS

Beautiful Way - You Me At Six

Good 4 u - Olivia Rodrigo

LPasótF Niig(h,tQ'ps GMasYcAaHraO u- Br'ynVnl CFartReQlSli

Fuck Being Sober - Annika Wells

She's So Gone - Naomi Scott

Karma - MOD SUN

Queegnd -I QLorenj hGvrhaóy

You Don't Own Me - SAY GRACE & G-Eazy

Say Your Prayer - Blithe

Don't Need A Man - Liv Grace Blue

S'urvWiYvForó C-( (2xWEI &Rampw; *EZddXad jHzayesH

X Gon' Give It To Ya - DMX

Boss Bitch - Doja Cat

I Am Defiant - The Seige

I''dx RZaUtphxer Diie -D TLRAMVPX cS)TQAMPYS

Sociopath - Olivia O'Brien

Future Ex - Abigail Barlow & Ariza

Deal with it - Ashnikko & Kellis

S.PL.)UA.Tm -c TBea MiDlQler

Kiss or Kill - Stela Cole

Intimidate You - Bloom Line & Brooke Alexx

Bitchcraft - Jax

Lovst WistQhowu'tG YyoZuB !- bFjrCeCya RBiWdtingQs

Unthinkable - Cloudy June

Only Be Mine - Arrows in Action

Never Ending Nightmare - Citizen Soldier & Kellin Quinn

PSYKCSHOcLBObGUIaCvAnL^ aW(ARr - jRXOuRYd

What the Stars See - Cassadee Pope

again&again - Against The Current

Just My Type - Taylor Bickett

Ypou OhuYghta Know* - GaPbbie HawnnaO

Murder Party - NOT THE MAIN CHARACTERS

Kapitel 1 (1)

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Første kapitel

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"Hvad fanden?!" Mit råb kommer halvt kvalt ud, da jeg kæmper for at trække vejret mod strømmen af iskoldt vand, der regner ned i mit ansigt.

"Velkommen tilbage til Echoes Cove, Octavia. Du er måske nationens prinsesse for resten af verden, men her er jeg dronningen. Det må du hellere ikke glemme." Min dumme kællingekusine, Blair, stryger sit lange, blonde hår over skulderen, inden hun drejer rundt og forlader det poolhus, som jeg i øjeblikket kalder mit hjem.

Jeg ligger igen på de våde lagner i en pool af iskoldt vand og forbander min far for at være så skide egoistisk endnu en gang. Takket være ham er jeg fanget i Echoes Cove i det sidste år, og jeg er tydeligvis ikke ønsket her, af nogen som helst. Desværre for alle involverede er jeg fanget i dette helvede i mindst ti måneder mere, indtil jeg bliver færdiguddannet. Min attenårs fødselsdag kan ikke komme hurtigt nok, så kan jeg i det mindste flytte ud af dette rædselshus.

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Poolhuset, hvor jeg er blevet skubbet hen som et legetøj, ingen har lyst til at lege med, er bedragerisk stort. Jeg har mit eget tekøkken - ikke at jeg kan lave mad for at redde mit liv, men jeg har minikøleskabet fyldt med fersken-is-te, og alle de ting, jeg skal bruge til at bage røde fløjlskager i skabene, hvis jeg skulle få lyst til det. Sengens hovedgærde sidder mod køkkenbordet, hvilket er praktisk, når jeg vil have vand, men ikke kan nænne at stå ud af sengen, og der er en lille sofa til venstre for den, hvor der er et lille opholdsrum. To af væggene er stort set bare kæmpe glasruder, så det ser større ud, end det er. Heldigvis er gardinerne herinde alle mørklægningsgardinerne, så jeg kan få en nogenlunde anstændig søvn.

Når jeg har fået lagnerne ned i vasketøjskurven, tager jeg en dyb indånding og gentager det mantra, der har hjulpet mig igennem de sidste par uger.

Jeg kan komme igennem det her. Det er lige under et år. Jeg kan overleve det her.

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"Godmorgen, Miss Royal. Hvordan har du det her til morgen?" Pattie, min tantes og onkels kok, rengøringsdame og, ja, generelt vicevært, smiler varmt til mig, da jeg kommer ind i køkkenet fra bagsiden af huset. Hendes smil falder, da hun ser mig, men jeg ryster på hovedet.

"Jeg har det fint." Jeg giver hende et stramt smil og håber, at min hovedrysten er nok til at forhindre hende i at overdænge mig med spørgsmål, som hun har gjort hver morgen, siden jeg ankom. Min fars død blev oprindeligt vurderet som mistænkelig, og alle synes at have deres egen mening om det. På trods af mine anmodninger om ikke at tale om det, vil alle fortælle mig deres teorier, selv om den afgørelse blev omstødt. Det tog to uger, før de vurderede, at det var selvmord, og i den periode blev jeg hos Mac og resten af holdet. Min genfundne familie. Men efter kremeringen og oplæsningen af testamentet slæbte børneforsorgen mig herhen trods mine protester.

Ud af alle her på stedet har Pattie været den flinkeste, siden jeg ankom for to uger siden, selv om barren her er blevet sat ret lavt. Men hun har i det mindste behandlet mig som et rigtigt menneske.

"HvjiDs *du* aer és(ikkkrePrw.V"v 'HIuun grynkexr épa*nLdenS, mCenOsk whóunk sjerV mQiDg obp rog nedc BigeCn, )meqnP t&vQi&ngerÉ !så eót YsmilU fhrzemf,F !djam jehg !skiftexr óféraa fod tlil Gfovdx Togd wfo)rsøcgqer) bat' ése ma.nTdXrBe stkeldNeLrM henn jend mdcirekqte jpDåp FheRn_des_ v&eUnlWigeF wanmsVig'tÉ. "RMaPdeDn ksbtårD Ipåg b*o!rde^t iN XmohrgwenKmadUsl*oVkacletM. Hpv_iys dpu LharI ibcrugm foqrn nKoget Zandveqt,a sLå sig Stiló."

"Tak, Pattie." Jeg vender mig om og går mod morgenmadslokalet, mens jeg prøver at lade være med at grine. Hvem fanden har egentlig et værelse kun til morgenmad? Denne McMansion er mere end vanvittig, og for 117. gang kan jeg ikke lade være med at være glad for, at jeg er i poolhuset. I det mindste kan jeg ikke fare vild derude.

"Godmorgen, Octavia." Min tantes skingre stemme får mig til at trække vejret. Jeg skider på at have tømmermænd i nærheden af hende. Hendes stemme er mere knirkende end et skide hundelegetøj. "Jeg går ud fra, at du er faldet i poolen på vej til huset?"

Blair fnyser fra sin stol og skjuler det forfærdeligt som en hoste, men min tante og onkel har for travlt med at glo på mig til at lægge mærke til det. Selvom min tante har fået lavet så meget arbejde, er det svært at se, om hun rynker panden mod mig, eller om det bare er sådan hun ser ud nu. Næsten alt ved hende er blottet for liv og følelser. Selv hendes platinfarvede hår hænger glat og dødt.

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"Selvfølgelig, onkel Nate." Jeg sukker, mens jeg sætter mig i den ekstra stol over for Blair. Hendes selvtilfredse blik er næsten nok til at få mig til at miste appetitten, men jeg har ikke tænkt mig at opgive glæden ved mad på grund af hende.

"Du skal gå til kontoret, når du kommer til skolen," begynder tante Vivienne, og jeg spænder kæben sammen som forberedelse til den syndflod af lort, der er ved at komme fra hendes læber. "Kontoradministratoren vil have dit skema og din skabsbetegnelse til dig. Din uniform hænger i dit skab, Pattie hentede den til dig i fredags ... Og før jeg glemmer det, har du ikke sendt din husleje. Jeg foreslår, at du taler med din bank og får oprettet en regelmæssig betaling, så vi ikke får nogen problemer, mens du bor her."

Kapitel 1 (2)

"Ja, tante Vivienne," sagde jeg. At betale dem husleje er min bod for, at min far efterlod mig alt, hvad han havde, uden begrænsning og uden nogen værge til at passe på mine penge, indtil jeg bliver 18 år. Så længe jeg består ECP med et gennemsnit på 4,0, men det er ligegyldigt. Den eneste grund til, at jeg bliver her, er på grund af klausulen i min fars testamente, der siger, at jeg skal bo hos min værge, indtil jeg bliver myndig. Dumme fucking klausul, hvis du spørger mig, da jeg er økonomisk uafhængig, men hvad skal en pige gøre? "Jeg troede, jeg skulle mødes med studievejlederen for at vælge mine klasser?"

Hun kigger ned på mig og tutter. "Hvis du havde været opmærksom på de brochurer, jeg lagde i poolhuset, ville du vide, at det ikke er sådan, tingene fungerer på Echoes Cove Prep. Dine klasser bliver valgt på forhånd, så de kan lave skemaet. Du blev tilmeldt sent, så du bør være taknemmelig for, at du overhovedet har en plads der."

Jeg nikker og tager en dyb indånding og skubber alle de ondskabsfulde kommentarer, der truer med at stige op, ned. Jeg rækker ud efter en bagel, og Vivienne klynker og kigger ned på mig med et skævt øjenbryn. Jeg er nødt til at elske den misbilligelse, der kommer fra hende i bølger.

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"Hun er en tabt sag, mor. Jeg mener, se bare på hende. Hun vil slet ikke passe ind i skolen. Jeg forstår ikke, hvorfor hun overhovedet kommer på præparatskolen. Jeg er sikker på, at Octavia ville føle sig meget bedre tilpas i en folkeskole," klynker Blair. Hun får det til at lyde som om hun gør mig en tjeneste, men hvis hendes lille show i morges er noget at gå ud fra, vil hun ikke have mig i nærheden af hendes skole. Jeg aner dog ikke hvorfor. Det sidste i verden, jeg ønsker, er hendes påståede krone. Hun kan beholde den. Popularitetskonkurrencer interesserer mig ikke det mindste. Jeg vil hellere have en lille gruppe af ægte venner end masserne, der kysser mine fødder, bare fordi de føler, at de burde. Det har livet med min far på landevejen lært mig meget. Falske venner er ikke vejen frem.

Jeg spiser min bagel op og overdøver deres tåbelige vrøvl ved at stikke en af mine ørekapsler fra min lomme ind i mit øre. Om ikke andet vil jeg altid være et barn af musik. Musik er min højere magt - min sjæl har brug for den for at overleve. Når jeg er færdig med min mad, skubber jeg mig væk fra bordet uden at sige et ord, da ingen alligevel er opmærksomme på deres nyeste ulejlighed, og går tilbage til poolhuset for at finde min uniform. Måske vil Echoes Cove Prep ikke være værre end at være her med en gruppe mennesker, der ikke kunne føles mindre som en funktionel, kærlig familie.

Jeg snøfter. Ja, det er rigtigt. Her, i huset, er der kun Blair. På skolen vil der være en hel skide flok mini-Blairs. Engang gik jeg i skole med de fleste af disse mennesker, men det var før min mor gik fra mig, og min far blev en stor succes med sin musik. Begge deres familier var rigere end Gud, men efter min mor forlod mig, fornægtede de os begge. Heldigvis havde far sine egne penge, så livet blev ikke vendt op og ned mere, end det allerede var. Når vi tog ud at rejse, havde han store skænderier med mine bedsteforældre, men jeg var aldrig tæt på dem. De døde ikke længe efter, at vi tog af sted... Det føles som om det er en menneskealder siden nu.

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Efter at være gået tilbage til poolhuset låser jeg dørene indefra og dobbelttjekker dem, da jeg er ret sikker på, at jeg låste dem i går aftes, og Blair stadig kom ind. Når jeg ved, at det er sikkert, går jeg hen til bruseren. Badeværelset er en af de eneste gode kvaliteter ved at være tvunget til at bo her. Brusebadet er lovligt ved at blive min fæstning af ensomhed. Jeg har aldrig lyst til at forlade det. Efter at have boet på hoteller og i en tourbus i årevis er et godt bad noget, jeg har lært at sætte pris på.

Jeg har ikke travlt. Det er sgu bare skole, og jeg har aldrig været en pige, der kræver meget vedligeholdelse, så hvorfor skulle jeg have travlt? Jeg smører mit hår ind i min honning- og vaniljeshampoo, som jeg opdagede, da jeg var i Storbritannien, og jeg nægter at tage tilbage igen. Når jeg kommer balsam på, bruger jeg min honningsæbe, som jeg sender ind fra Marseille. Den er helt fantastisk, og jeg er vild med duften. Jeg nyder den trygge morgen, vel vidende at når jeg først er væk herfra, vil min fred nok ikke vare ved.

Jeg blæser mit mørke hår ud, som falder helt lige ned til min talje, selv om den eneste rigtige opmærksomhed, jeg giver styling, er til mit pandehår. Mit hår er ret tykt, så det kræver en smule håndtering at få mit pandehår til at se fantastisk ud. Når mit hår er færdigt, går jeg hen til skabet, men jeg finder ikke den uniform, som Pattie angiveligt havde efterladt til mig. Jeg sværger ved Gud, at hvis Blair tog den for at tage pis på mig, er jeg ikke bange for at slå hende lige i hendes nye næse.

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Nederdelen er sort og hvidt ternet, som kommer med lårhøje sokker og en stivet hvid skjorte. Sammen med dem er der en sort og hvid halstørklæde-ting og en sort blazer, begge broderet med skolens våbenskjold, som har accenter af en grøngrøn... Nogen må fandeme redde mig. Der er en seddel tapet fast på bøjlen, som fanger mit blik.

Valget af sko er valgfrit.

Kapitel 1 (3)

Jeg foreslår dog et par Mary Janes eller noget andet lige så sofistikeret.
Min tante kan blive kvalt i en pik.
Hvis jeg skal have denne påklædning på, og valget af sko er valgfrit, så tager jeg mine Chucks på. Jeg trækker i den undskyldning af en uniform og stønner, da jeg ser mit spejlbillede. Jeg vidste, at det ville blive slemt, men for helvede da. Jeg drejer mig rundt og får en håndflade i ansigtet. Min røv er praktisk talt til at se med den korte nederdel. Jeg ved godt, at jeg har kurver, og jeg har altid elsket dem, men for fanden. Jeg ligner noget fra en skide pornofilm.
Lnadk d)ettRe! vsæVre d.ehn jværÉste) OdelG af mÉidnT daCgI.H..
* * *
Der er hvisken efter mig, da jeg går fra min lejebil mod hoveddørene til Echoes Cove Prep. På dette tidspunkt i mit liv er rygter og sladder ikke noget nyt. At være datter af Stone Royal betyder, at disse ting har fulgt mig i næsten hele mit liv. Han var nationens konge, og jeg var deres prinsesse. Hvisken var en del af territoriet.
Bortset fra disse hviskerier ... De har intet at gøre med mit gamle liv. Disse hvisken har alt at gøre med at jeg er tilbage her på Echoes Cove Prep i mit sidste år. Det er ikke svært at overhøre alle tale om mig. Det meste af det er ikke sandt, så hvisken om luder og luder generer mig ikke så meget. Det er hvisken om min far, der gør ondt. Jeg burde have vidst, at Echoes Cove ville have mere sladder end Page Six.
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De hviskende ord om, hvorfor jeg er tilbage, øger blot mit ønske om at være andre steder end her. Jalousien over at have fuld adgang til min arv synes at være en anden ting, der giver næring til rygterne.
"Jeg har hørt, at hun kneppede sin advokat for at få ham til at ændre hendes fars testamente og forfalske underskriften."
"Jeg har hørt, at hun dræbte sin far bare for pengenes skyld."
"B!eccikMyR &h,aVrF hóørt, patk hesnLdnes far ikRkVe QenguaVnmgf bVebgik. bseJlvmord. DetI vamr eétK FddæikwkPeT covVe_r eWt ÉmolrdT. Jeg vCilZ vændde meXdb,X dat hu(n qgvjorde dVetK.n"B
Jeg ruller med øjnene. De ting, folk siger, overvælder mig, men jeg kender sandheden, så jeg prøver ikke at lade det gå mig på. De vil måske ikke have mig her, og helt ærligt? Jeg ville meget hellere have brugt året på at lave hjemmeundervisning og fortsætte med at rejse, så følelsen er mere end gensidig. Desuden er jeg lidt bekymret for, hvor godt jeg vil klare mig i traditionel skolegang sammenlignet med hjemmeundervisning i forvejen.
Jeg ved, at jeg ikke er som mange af de trust fund babies her, takket være min far. Mens de fleste af dem vil have grænser for, hvad de kan få adgang til deres trustfonde, har jeg ikke ... Og jeg vil aldrig, nogensinde at skulle bekymre sig om penge igen, så længe jeg holder mig til bestemmelserne i testamentet, og jeg har fuldt ud til hensigt at gøre det. Alle de penge er et helvede af et stridspunkt med min tante og onkel. På trods af palæet på Ballers' Row og det faktum, at de begge er fra det, som tante Vivienne ynder at kalde "gamle penge", plus det faktum, at onkel Nate er en enormt succesfuld investeringsbankmand, er jeg åbenbart stadig et utroligt stort dræn for deres ressourcer.
Ja, det var en sjov samtale. Den, hvor de fortalte mig, at jeg skulle betale for min rejse, fordi de umuligt kunne tage mig ind af deres gode hjerte. Det generer mig dog ikke rigtig. Penge er ikke alt... Jeg vil meget hellere have en sidste dag med far, hvor vi laver alle vores yndlingsting. Indrømmet, hvis jeg sagde det højt her, ville jeg sikkert blive skudt.
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Jeg ser på folk omkring mig og ønsker, at jeg var et andet sted end her. Alle her er så falske, og på trods af min opvækst - eller måske på grund af den - er falsk alt det, jeg foragter.
Disse mennesker... De var engang mit folk, men alt, hvad jeg har set i de få uger, jeg har været tilbage i Echoes Cove, fortæller mig, at enten er jeg ikke den samme person, jeg var, da jeg tog af sted, eller også er de ikke den samme. Min kusine, som engang praktisk talt var min søster, er intet mindre end en åndsvag kælling fra helvede, og mine tre engang bedste veninder... Tja, efter hvad jeg har hørt fra Blair, er de hendes veninder nu og ligner hende på en prik.
Og det er før jeg tænker på de drenge, som engang var mine klipper... mine frelsere. Hvis de er noget som Blair har sagt, så vil alt ved at være tilbage her blive noget lort. Jeg har ikke hørt fra nogen af dem, siden jeg kom tilbage til byen, og Blair gjorde det klart for mig, at jeg var persona-non-grata for dem. Jeg hader, at hun måske har ret, men hvis de er noget som det, jeg har hørt, så er det måske bedst sådan. Det lader til, at jeg ikke er den eneste, der har ændret sig i de sidste fem år.
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Jeg prøver at trække nederdelen ned af denne åndssvage uniform, mens jeg går, ignorerer alle og går hen til kontoret for at hente mit skema og min skabsopgave. Hvordan denne nederdel, sammen med de lårhøje sokker, kan betragtes som en nedringet skoleuniform, er mig fuldstændig ubegribeligt. Mit bedste gæt er, at rektoren er en pervers mand. Eller også kan den, der trækker i hans tråde, lide dette latterlige tøj ... og er også pervers. Min skjorte er næsten for stram omkring pigerne, og jeg er ret sikker på, at min bh er helt synlig, og blazeren er helt sikkert også en smal pasform. Jeg ser fucking latterlig ud. Jeg ville slå ihjel for at få mine jeans, band tees og læderjakke tilbage.

Der er begrænset antal kapitler at placere her, klik på knappen nedenfor for at fortsætte med at læse "Et spil om overlevelse"