Your consciousness goes through the same painfully uncomfortable rewind as the first time, the black and grey images rewinding in a quick agonising video that feels like skin peeling and soft unbearable pressure to your throat and belly.
The AI voice drills into your skull in burrowing artificial waves but your too confused and shaken to listen to how much time you have left, to how many days, hours and minutes until you lose. All you have to do is escape but for some reason you just can't move, muscles locking painfully, body trembling like a lost lamb or a fearful bambi.
The situation only devolved from there. For the next three days there is nothing but your death, hundreds if not thousands of fatalities. Lethal injection, stabbing, spike even a mine (that one was particularly painful, your foot had blown up, your body propelled against a wall only to land stomach first onto another mine and having your guts shot through your back and hang on the ceiling like bunting). The pain and shock of each death starts to wear you down, mind fraying, body weak despite being in the best state its ever been in.
The AI voice that tumbles through your ears says, "six days and ten minutes remaining."
Your body shifts mechanically, if you head down the right corridor the guardian nurse will find you in three minutes, if you head down the left she'll find you in five and if you stay here she'll arrive in ten to twenty minutes.
You arms move mechanically, slowly and achingly sharp movements, each pulse of muscle seemingly telegraphing your every move, arms flexing obviously as they move to hoist you into the sitting position. The soft feeling of the sheets are oddly comforting, the only constant that hasn't yet claimed your life or drew the rich ichor of your life. Your abdomen aches as it is forced into the sitting position for the thousandth odd time. The psychological impact causes phantom pain in your flesh to feel as if they have been working tirelessly to move you around, every sit up ingrained into your memory from getting up and down off of the cot, every slip and fall catalogued in your legs, as if your built on the data that your mind has collected despite being a technical new vessel.
Taking a deep breath, chest heaving, gulping air to prepare for your next attempt, lungs burning from imaginary hours of breathing fast and hard, of running and jumping and leaping and turning and slamming into walls. Each memory adding to the list of phantom pain that haunts the very flesh of your body, the ghosting pains assaulting you in harsh throbs of fake lactic acid.
You finally move to get up, feet bending sideways, sliding between the spike so carefully laid around you. Your legs go on autopilot, pivoting and moving with grace unbefitting of your mental condition, movements too polished for someone who doesn't see what they're doing, each leg bending gracefully around the traps, spinning with the agility of a tiger. The muscles in your calf burn slowly, real lactic acid being ejected into your blood stream due to the lack of oxygen getting to your cells resulting in the switch from aerobic to anaerobic respiration. This ache feels almost relieving compared to the phantom pains that sit deeply within the fibers of your muscles and flesh, each layer of cells being shaken by both fake and real lactic acid that results in the release of adrenaline.
The rush of this wonder hormone makes the aches fade completely, earning a temporary reprieve of the pain of your head.
Your steps continue towards the cupboard hidden in the corner of the room, arms reaching out in the slow jerky movements of a rusty machine. Your hand closes around the handle, fingers spasming in small movements that make it difficult to grip the groove of handle, each finger sliding uselessly for a few minutes.
Your other hand snaps up in a stinging arch, slapping your own risk. The sharp strike bites hard but allows your trembling fingers to grip the handle and tug, the door moving with painfully loud squeaking noise of grinding iron and creaking hinges that make you wince. The sound strikes your skull in an annoying and fearful ballad of forbidden sound.
Sound was dangerous, the more sounds you make the quicker that sexy and torturous nurse comes to kill you.
Your hands tremble as they search the cupboard, fiddling with bottles and pills, medicine and other useless things. Each bottle rattles and creates more soft sound, the familiar click of heels joins the orchestra of falling pills. Finally your hand closes around a scalpel. Your fumbling hands tear the wrapping open, revealing the soft glint of the blade, the edge sharper than any razor. The sleek and lethal design built to cut through flesh easily and help heal the wounded through simple and complex surgeries.
"Baby, where are you," the syrupy lethal voice of that accursed nurse suddenly echoes loud not ten paces behind you. Your body moves fast, stomach torquing legs pivoting, hands clutching the scalpel with all the strength your imaginarily battered body is. "Poor thing, lie down," She smiles softly, "lie down so I can treat you properly." Her hands reach out slowly.
The scalpel trembles in your grasp, the nurse smiles, eyes locked onto yours. Her hands approach too gentle for you to cut, her tone more caring than before, more like a mother and an actual nurse not some psycho slasher.
Her dark fingers close around your hand, pulling the soft flesh of your fingers from around the cold metal of the blade. Her gentle movements make you freeze in confusion, muscles locking in fearful protest.
She continues her gentle tugging, prying the scalpel away and pulling you into an embrace. "Did I do something wrong baby? You werent going to hurt yourself right?" Her voice is small and paniced.
You remember there being multiple ways to clear the floor, escape or give them what they desire. You think you may have discovered the latter option.