I Was Trapped In A House With Twelve People Who All Wanted Me Dead

Unsplash / Andreas Eriksson

“What the fuck?”

“How did we get in here?”

“I think I’m bleeding.”

“We’re all bleeding, dumbass.”

My fingers reached for my slick forehead and slipped off, smearing blood across the couch as I let my hand fall limp.

Thirteen of us filled the room, and judging by the gashes running from the center of our skulls down to the bridge of our noses, someone brought us there by force.

The house looked harmless enough, with stark white floors connecting living room to kitchen and a spiral staircase crafted from white wood, but the people inside – some slouched across counters, some propped against walls – acted as if someone had thrown them into the wild.

“All right. We need to sort this shit out,” a boy with an ocean sleeve said. He climbed onto the coffee table inside a semi-circle of couches to be better seen. “Anybody here have any memory of… anything?”

Murmurs floated through the room, soft and confused. Maybe a serial killer kidnapped us, drugged us, and dragged us here? Or maybe we all suffered through trauma together, a plane crash or a shooting, and formed collective amnesia?

Each new theory out-crazied the last, but I failed to come up with anything to beat them. My mind felt heavy, thick with questions.

“To hell with this,” a girl with paw print tattoos across her collarbone said and slogged toward the front door. “Who cares why we’re here? Let’s get out.”

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