Blood Game

My Friend Taught Me How To Play ‘The Blood Game’ And I Regret Ever Playing It

It was everything I could do not to scream as we were led to one wall of the expansive basement. There I saw three people, all naked, tied to hooks in the wall with sturdy rope. I immediately recognized all of them as Clare, Adelaide, and Garrett. Clare was in the worst shape of all of them. Her body looked like it had sustained much abuse already, as she was covered in bruises and poorly healed cuts. She looked barely aware of her surroundings. The puddle of dried blood at her feet was disturbingly large. Adelaide had only a few wounds on her body, but they looked fresh. Garrett was as of yet unharmed other than a few bruises. Both Adelaide and Garrett were gagged, but Clare was not. Clare, it seemed, could do little more than drool bloody spit.

I wanted to puke. I wanted to attack the Ripper next to me. I wanted to do anything but just stand there stupidly, but that was all I seemed capable of doing. My limbs felt like lead.

“Tonight we have a powerful selection to drink from,” Bethany said with a glee that sent shudders down my spine.

“First, we have the blood of the willing,” she said, pointing towards Clare who continued to do nothing but spit up blood and blink lazily.

“Second, we have the blood of the bound, the most powerful,” she said, pointing towards Adelaide who looked around the room with nothing in her eyes but a sort of sad resignation.

“Third, we have the blood of the infidel, the traitor,” she said, pointing towards Garrett whose eyes were filled with rage. He struggled and did his best to shout around the gag. One of the Rippers walked over to him, punching him hard in the gut, and he quieted down. I quickly pulled the camera out and snapped another picture before stashing it away again.

Sarah now stepped forward, brandishing an ornate knife. I watched in horror as she slashed Clare deeply on the thigh and several Rippers stepped forward, licking at the wound, blood covering their mouths and faces. Clare made no reaction. Others stepped forward and they took turns drinking from the steadily dripping wound.

“What the fuck!?” I shouted, both surprised and terrified by my outburst, but apparently unable to control it.

The Rippers turned towards me. Their faces were unreadable. It was too dark to tell but it seemed to me that all their eyes had become an unnatural yellow color.

“Is something wrong, Daniel?” Bethany asked.


About the author
Tommy Poole-Frank is a Writer, Public Speaker, Performer, and Farmer currently located in Golden, Colorado. Follow Tommy on Twitter or read more articles from Tommy on Thought Catalog.

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