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Calliope's lip wobbled as she gently turned to face the room, standing upright as she stared out into the room.
Obviously, she had voted herself. No point in being dishonourable in this. “It was lovely to know you! All of you. I enjoyed making friends completely unobserved,” she sighed. “I suppose it would be a bit depressing to say this was the best thing to ever happen to me, but I think it might have been,” tears welled again, reeling in how truly depressing that fact was. Left alone to kill each other on a boat was the moment she had reached a feeling of acceptance. Attending in Caliborn's place was not the condemnation it had initially felt as the game was announced.
Composure was hard to keep in this situation; she began choking and stumbling over her words. “I always used- used to say if I d-died that calling for me three times would... well would wake me! So even if it doesn’t bring me back... I’d like to at least go out remembered by my name. I’m Calliope English, the Ultimate Author. I’m so pleased to have known you all.”
What a heart felt send off! Too bad it means nothing as she stands tall, waiting for her end to snatch her. Still crying, Calliope accepts her fate with as much grace as she can muster in the face of death.
"IT'S PUNISHMENT TIME!"
The eerie voice of that mechanical cat ripped through her, echoing around the whole room.
The pale of Callie’s skin was reflected in the lit room as her podium gently rose, as though a stage was being created for her as she gripped to the bars in panic. Her eyes were still sodden with the traces of vanished tears as she avoided looking down, avoided looking at any of those she had laughably assumed could be her friends. The ceiling shook as a small hole opened, a pile of books descending onto her shelf, barely missing her head. With a shaky breath, she picked up the pen that had appeared atop them and stared at the cover. Her own work, under her own name, fully printed in all its glory with a gorgeous leather binding. And it was in her hands.
[Death of the Author]
She turned the front page, a neat line left there, ‘author’s signature’ captioning the blank piece of page, and with confused delight she placed ink to page, a laugh bubbling in her wrecked throat as the ink spilled out blood red with each flick of her pen.
Not seeing how this could be punishment, she continued, pen flicking across paper with enthusiasm unseen on her face for months.
Yet as she reached her fourth copy, small patches of blood began seeping through her clothing. By her fifth, across her shoulder it was clear as day, blood beading in the shape of her signature and slowly rolling down her arm.
Whether she was too hyped on adrenaline to notice, or baring through in search of a hopeless dream it was unclear, as more and more of the intricate marks appeared across her body, becoming shakier and shakier with every one. A headache inducing clapping was blaring in her ears, inaudible to nobody else and a crescendo of her own name being chanted raised louder and louder above it. Hot tears began falling thick and fast as more and more copies of the book came, one voice ringing louder than the rest, causing her to come to a quivering pause.
“Excuse me doll, but could you sign this one for me?”
It did not matter that only she could hear, blood pooling at her feet as she shakily reached for the final copy, the final strike through her name drawing a gash across her throat.
Eyes widened, she stumbled back in shock, falling from her platform as her frail body hit the ground with a sickening crunch. The last voice echoing in her ears, a final request, no matter how fabricated, from Roxy Lalonde.