"So, I have to marry you," she stated slowly, just realizing what the clue was, "in order for the money to not go to your father?" It was more of a statement than a question, like she was asking herself if she really had to go through with it. "But there's no freaking priest or priestess around here. How are we supposed to get married?"
"I don't know, Tess. Let's get out of here first."
But how? I mean, it wasn't like we could climb the chains of this cage and then swing across the rope that allowed the cage to lower, landing on the ground and making a sprint for it.
Then, a light bulb went on in my head.
"We climb the chains of the cage, and then swing across that rope," I explain, pointing to the objects that would help us across, "then we land and make a break for the exit."
She examined the plan, and then nodded at its awesomeness. She reached for the bars, throwing herself into a risky doom that could cause her death. I allowed her to go first just so that I could keep an eye on her, in case anything bad was to happen. We left the tape, because we'd already seen all the information we needed to give us some sort of motivation—not that risking our lives wasn't a motivation—and to let it incinerate so that my father couldn't meddle with it, either.
As I set out behind her, it occurred to me of the impossibility of the task ahead of us. Of course, I felt shameful that I was rubbing against scorching metal in a naked skin. The metal scraped against me—and my nether regions, which, to be honest, was very uncomfortable—as we climbed higher and higher.
At one point, I stopped—stopped to watch her go free, for her to escape. She was graceful in her moves, more or less careful of what she was doing so that she wouldn't harm herself. I had to give her credit, she knew what she was doing; at least for the most part.
She struggled with the climbing, and she struggled with frustration and confusion—of what, I was clueless.
When I began to continue again, I have no idea, but the task was exceedingly easy and impossible. There was life and death right now; left and right; right and wrong; love and despair. And most indefinitely, truth.
But, fiction is made up, is it not? However, can it tell the truth? You see, I write of fiction, and then I write as myself—Tyler Stanley, a brother of mine. Yes, this is his story—his story of despair, and death, and right, as well as truth.
Now, a little bit about myself. The emotions of love turn me, you could say. I am that way, too, with stories, and with Tessa, here. See, my parents gave birth to me a year after they're marriage in some decades ago. There were three others—my dear siblings—Josie, Mindy, Julie, and myself. There were only four of us, and father had so desperately hoped for a boy. He believed for as long as he could that he would get one—Tyler. Sadly, he died soon after my birth. He had no son, and I will never have a blood brother. I believe that my sisters are all I have, as well as their cherished love.
Fiction and truth are what I write, not facts.
So, here I am thinking of all of this as I climb closer to the ropes. Tessa was already there, and she was swiftly moving across, and quietly so as not to disturb anyone.
Then it came my turn to sway across. Here I was ringing hand by hand along the old dusty rope. Every thing was going well for us both.
A shot rang out, and my right hand killed me. The blood oozed down my neck and traced my own fingers and arm, dripping lower and lower down my body until it simmered in the lava beneath me.
I grunted, and no more. I had to continue my destination; I had to save her, for she was the only one for me. She had to be. She was mine, and will always be. I could see that in her face. I believed that she would make me her husband, and I would eventually take her as a wife, not the other eight or some of them that preceded me. Or, at least they tried to.
I write with my right hand now, telling you of this very excruciating truth—the ache in my heart, the burn in my hand, the tension in my arm, and the fear in my head.
"Tyler, don't move," Ally advised me.
She was glaring straight at me, Tessa's hand upon her shoulder. There was no sense of expression on either of their faces except for concern and worry.
"Please, Tyler! Other wise you will die and I will be left without a brother," she pleaded.
And I agreed. I couldn't lose my sister right now. She desperately needed me, and Tessa, too.
"So, what's your choice, girl?" my father spoke to me. "Pick and choose the line of life. Hand over the money or die."
I shook my head, hanging by my left hand.
And I saw Tessa. She held the gun pointed at me.
The gun was fired.
I believed that she loved me, and I was wrong.