I wrote this short story in 2008. Having been one of the many millions to watch, "Squid Game", I remembered I wrote this story, and went back for another read. Maybe if they DO do a second series, perhaps this could kind of be an idea. Oh, I need some sort of fair financial and artistic credit..... right? lol
Reality
Show
The dawn air is cool, but the sun’s brightness
promises a beautiful, hazy June day. I
leave the window open as the birds’ twittering calms my nerves. Today is a big day, so I want to savour this.
I can honestly say I have been well looked after in
here but I really look forward to getting out.
I realise that the road is not at an end just yet – but I feel positive,
confident and strong.
People usually opt for a relaxed, luxurious stay here. You can have anything you want. Some prepare themselves to meet their God whilst
others fall into a pit of degradation, reacting to every lustful and stupefied
impulse (and sometimes leave in a wooden box).
I don’t blame them for wanting an escape, but I chose to prepare my
brain and my body to get through this and get back to my ten-year-old daughter.
I manage to sleep for a couple of hours until the door
opens and an apologetic, smiling producer comes in. I rise and he invites me to sit with him. I do so with a wry smile as I remind myself that
this comfortable, spacious room, my home for the past twelve months, was always
just a purpose-built construction on a soundstage.
As I pretend to listen obediently to today’s schedule,
I become aware of the buzz of the hidden cameras – something that I had
virtually forgotten about within days of being here. I know what to expect anyway, the series has
been around for over fifty years. I've
watched it all my life. Still, he
prepares me for my interview, focussing on the struggle of losing sixty pounds
to get fit, the lack of communication, missing my daughter and the decision to
shave off all my hair. I hope he doesn’t
mention the night when I missed physical contact too much and slipped my hand
under the duvet… oh, he does. I try to laugh it off as normal and
self-comforting, but in truth, I am mortified.
After asking if I have any final questions (I don’t) he leaves.
In the distance, I hear the audience being let into
the amphitheatre. Butterflies in my
stomach set off my nerves and I wonder if I can go through with this. Like I have a choice. It’s kill or be killed, basically.
I think back to the night I was called up, a year
ago. I feared for my daughter and immediately
thought about seeking out the Resurrectionists.
As we are the only country participating in this now, this underground
resistance group could help us across the border. Frankly, I think they’re fictional, a false hope. Anyway, you’re watched closely from the
moment you’re selected and everyone knows that if anyone assisting an escape
attempt faces the death penalty.
When I first saw my room I was pleased to have that
amount of space to myself, all sixteen by twelve of it. The reality of the situation has never been
far away, but, not being able to do anything about it, I focussed on developing
strength and learning taekwondo to build stamina and prepare for the task ahead.
Hearing my name chanted outside jolts me back to the
present. I gulp. My mouth is dry. I glance at my watch but don’t notice the
time. It’s pointless anyway because I
don’t know how long is left. I want to
scream in frustration but I can’t, I must to save it for the final round.
I don’t want to meditate because I’ll get pissed off
if I’m disturbed, so I pace. My
temperature changes from warm to hot to cold and back again. At times my breathing is shallow and fast, so
I control it by breathing in through my nose and then releasing the air slowly
and evenly through my mouth. It works,
but only while I’m doing it.
I notice that the door is ajar. Locking it is pointless. People never make it further than a few feet
before being forced, violently, back into the room and strapped down. I never tried that. Oh, I did in my mind, but they don’t have full
access to that. They have more than you
would think, but less than they
think.
Suddenly, I am ushered out of the room and it feels
like I’m being ripped from the womb. I
am miked up and shoved in front of blinding lights where I feel an overwhelming
sense of displacement. I hear my voice
in calm conversation but don’t feel in control of it. It’s so surreal it’s comical. Does everyone go through this?
All I can think about is how petite Chelsey Summers
is. Honestly, she looks about six feet
tall on television. She took over
presenting the show two years ago from her mother, Kylie Summers. She not only looks like her but also has that
fake ‘best friend’ attitude. I warm to
her anyway – why not?
During the ad break I size up the opposition. Out of the ten of us going into confinement
only seven remain. Two died of drugs overdoses
and another took a ‘voluntary exit’ – suicide to you and me. We’re supposedly monitored around the clock
yet this poor bugger found an opportunity to break a mirror and slash his
wrists. You’d think that after half a
century there would be safety measures in place, but I guess ratings come first. Another attempted to starve herself to
death, but they saved her and here she is, sickly thin and weak. At least she’ll be easy to put down.
Looking at the others, I’ve got a fairly good
chance. There’s one who took the ‘drink
and drugs’ route, a black man who won’t make eye contact (could be a problem),
a terrified overweight woman crying quietly (she does make eye contact and I
feel bad about how I will be killing her presently), a small, rough looking
girl and finally a glamour model type who has kept her shape and, seemingly,
her dim positivity. I’m going to enjoy
wiping that smile off her face.
Back on air, the new draw takes place. The fifty people picked by the Random Number Selector
last week are here now. The solemn
ceremony of bringing out of the Black Box takes place – the box that has been
used for every draw since the show began.
Although it commands reverence, it’s really just a small and
insignificant box. Still, like countless
of others before me, I will touch it for good luck as I leave. Right now, each of the new contestants will handpick
a random barcode from it, ten of which are rigged to sound an alarm at the
testing machine.
I wonder if, like me a year ago, they will have the
shakes and sweaty palms, trying to suppress the panic just beneath the
surface. Some will faint, many will cry in
shock or happiness, a couple might piss themselves, others will be numb. When my barcode went off, between the noise
of the alarms and the roar of the crowd I didn’t notice how I got backstage. It all seems so long ago.
When the first alarm goes off, the contestant screams
about how he didn’t have long enough to pick out his barcode and accuses the
system of being rigged. I sympathise. I can’t think of how to control the
population beyond war and disease, but there must be more humane ways of
trimming down the fifteen billion people on this planet than this.
After the draw, the attention turns back to my
team. ‘Team’. I bet each of us has never felt so alone in
our lives. Chelsey jokes about how the
time between shows goes by so quickly; that it doesn’t seem a year since we
went in. Thanks for the sensitivity,
Summers. I was trying to stall the
inevitability of what is to come but thanks for trivialising my terror. When does she get to be a contestant?
She prattles on about individual journeys and they show
the highlights that the media have picked up on. My little ‘personal session’ was in there but
of course, it was minor news really.
Then we are paraded into the arena for the final
round. The crowd explode. I’ve been in those seats myself a few times. Getting tickets is hard, but it’s an amazing
feeling to be there, cheering on your favourite contestants or jeering the ones
you hate. Even now it’s difficult not to
get caught up in the excitement of it.
I always used to think these ‘gladiators’ were proud heroes
of this tradition, achieving fame and immortality. It doesn’t feel like that. I feel small and utterly helpless. From my trap I look at the maniacal faces in
the crowd, screaming for blood. My heart
pumps to the exact same rhythm as their chanting. It is hard to miss my own mother and my
daughter, proudly shouting my name from the families’ section.
The claxon sounds and the traps open. As I get my bearings, my competitors immediately
run toward the starving woman as she collapses silently to the floor in
submission. She curls into the foetus
position and is lost amongst the kicking legs.
Black Man is the first to break out of the group as his
huge hands clamp around Rough Girl’s throat.
Junkie assists by pulling her head back, cutting off her air supply. She fights back as best she can but it’s a
quick death.
Fat Lady has surprising energy and wastes no time in getting
hold of Bimbo’s head and biting off her ear.
Junkie is now getting laid into by Black Man. I need to conserve strength but have to
decide who to take out first and how to do it.
Learning taekwondo without another person to practice with was stupid -
I can’t remember anything.
Black Man is kicked in the nuts by Junkie and taken
down. Leaping onto his chest, he rains
punches down on him whilst he can, because he knows that the moment he stops, Black
Man is going to send him to Hell.
Meanwhile, Fat Lady has double-poked Bimbo in the eyes
and all she can do to retaliate is attempt to elbow her, screaming. No-one is going to help you, love.
I don’t see the point of intervening yet. These people look busy and are unconcerned
with me. Junkie repeatedly smashes Black
Man’s head onto the floor and looks up for a moment. We make eye contact. He leaves Black Man without a glance. Black Man doesn’t realise this because the blood
oozing from his ears indicates that he’s past caring now.
As Junkie makes a beeline for me he kicks at Bimbo’s
head. The crowd cheer so loud at the
bloodspill that I don’t hear her neck snap, I just see her crumple to the
floor.
This is it.
Time to fight. I take stance as
the bastard runs at me, his right eye swollen closed and a contorted, dark-blooded
mouth erupting an animalesque snarl. I remind
myself that there are no rules, I am defending myself against a wild animal.
My pose is useless as his punch to my temple softens
the noise of the crowd behind a loud ringing in my head. As I fall, slow-motion, to the ground, I notice
that Fat Lady is stomping on Bimbo’s heavily bloodied face and I manage a chuckle.
I am only down for a second. I roll over and jump up to my feet, dazed and
tasting wet metal in my mouth. Aah, that
must be blood then.
Junkie comes at me again but this time I am prepared, and
jab at his throat with outstretched fingers.
The resulting burning pain in my hand sings an aria, but it stops him in
his tracks. As he comes back at me, I punch-clap
his ears - hard. I take this opportunity
to head-butt him and hear a satisfying crack as my head shatters his nose. Quickly, I take the heel of my hand to it,
sending a shard of bone straight into his brain. He goes down.
My daughter’s voice calls, like an angel. As I turn to promise her victory, I don’t
notice that Fat Lady is behind me and I take another blow to my head. There’s that damned ringing again. I stagger and hit the air behind me with my
elbows, but it’s in vain, because she kicks me in the back and I’m down on my
stomach. Before I know it she is kicking
my head – just like she did with Bimbo. I
just need to roll over and trip her up.
I turn, but before I can muster strength her foot stamps
down on my throat. As I gasp for air she
smiles and the last thing I ever see is her foot coming towards my face.
