The Mating Run by Leeka

Chapter 39

Breakout

88%

Victor, sprawled on his beanbag, looks at me with a hint of curiosity.

“Lost your sense of humor, Alina?” he quips, his voice cutting through the stillness.

glance at him, a bitter taste lingering in my mouth. “Do you even know what happened out there? What we had to do to survive?”

Victor shrugs, a nonchalant gesture that stirs a simmering anger within me. “Survival, adaptation – it’s all part of the game, Alina. You should learn to embrace

it.”

I clench my fists, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Embrace it? You act like it’s some kind of thrilling adventure. We’re out there fighting for our lives, and all you care about is your privilege.”

Victor leans forward, his smirk replaced by a cold glint in his eyes. “Privilege or not, it doesn’t change the fact that we’re all playing the same game. Some just play it smarter.”

The tension in the shack thickens, a palpable force that hangs in the air. The moonlight casts long shadows, accentuating the divide between us. I take a deep breath, my anger simmering beneath the surface.

  1. US.

“You think it’s a game, Victor? A game with rules that only favor you?”

Victor smiles, points at the corner of the shack where a camera is directed at

“Why don’t we ask the audience?”

I shake my head, a bitter smile playing on my lips.

“Fuck you.”

O

1/7

08:34 Sat, 9 Mar N

Breakout

I can’t shake off the frustration that coils within me, a serpent ready to strike. The moonlight seeps through the windows, casting a cold glow on the scattered remnants of my earlier outburst.

I pace the limited space, the confined walls of the shack closing in on me. The what–ifs, the maybes – they echo in my mind like a haunting refrain. I glance at Victor, lounging on his bed with an air of indifference, and the anger resurfaces.

Without a word, I start tearing through the shack once more. Plates crash to the floor, and gadgets are thrown haphazardly. Victor grumbles, his irritation. evident, but he doesn’t move to stop me. The shack becomes a canvas for my rage, a chaotic display of frustration.

“Relax, Alina,” Victor mutters, his voice tinged with annoyance. “Someone’s going to find us soon, and this will all be over.”

I

His words only fuel my anger. I turn to him, my eyes burning with intensity. “Find us? This isn’t a game, Victor. We’re not waiting for rescue. We’re fighting for survival, and your privilege blinds you to that!”

Victor rolls his eyes, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips.

crazy, can

words, my frustration pushing me to continue my rampage. The shack, with its illusions and confines, bears the brunt of my rebellion.

on his bed, flipping through his magazine with casual disinterest. The sound of pages turning becomes a backdrop to my destructive symphony. The shack, once a haven of illusions, now

object, hurling

magazine, annoyance etched on his

limited space, frustration coiling within

1/7

9 Mar

Breakout

88%

a target for my wrath. Without a word, I snatch it from him and start tearing through

irritation. “Seriously, Alina? If you’re going to be

coursing through me. The magazine becomes a casualty of my frustration, its pages torn and scattered like. confetti. The

within.

tearing my magazine will change anything?”

a satisfying rip. “Mayber not, but it feels

making a mess for no

forest.”

only fans the flames of my anger. I tear through the magazine with renewed vigor, the sound of paper tearing becoming a mantra of rebellion. The shack,

frustration and resignation in his voice. “You’re

scoff, tossing a torn page into the air.

unimpressed. “Reality or not, tearing my things won’t change a

even more intensity, my actions fueled by a mix of frustration and a desperate need to reclaim a sense of control. The moonlight outside casts elongated shadows on the

O

217

34 Sat, 9 Mar

Breakout

88

rebellion is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. “You’re really making a fuss over nothing, Alina.”

world, the unforgiving forest, linger like shadows in the corners of my mind. I find myself trapped in a mental labyrinth, revisiting the visceral experiences of the Mating

moonlit darkness, surfaces in my thoughts. The

stealth, the quiet breaths, the desperate attempts to remain unseen. Survival, in those moments, boiled

and tension splashed across

ally in the dance of survival. Yet, alliances are ephemeral in the harsh reality of

of survival, the primal fear of becoming prey. I recall the heartbeat, the rush of adrenaline, and the cruel necessity that compelled me to wield a rock as a

of struggle and indulgence, a tale of survival versus comfort. While I grappled with the fear of being hunted, Victor reclined in his haven, shielded from the brutal truths of

becomes a silent graveyard. The memory carries the weight of a

and

perched above it all in his sanctuary. The memories of struggle and death clash with the image of him indulging in the comforts of the shack. It’s a bitter realization that in this cruel game, not all players face the

3/7

9

Breakout

dangers of the forest, he feasted on

sheltered existence.

burn that threatens to erupt. The shack, with its illusions of safety, becomes a trigger for the resentment that festers.

corpses, the silent witnesses to the brutality of survival. Each life lost is a scar on the landscape of my memory, a

The Novel will be updated daily. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

Comments ()

0/255