I sat on the couch, TV flickering in the dim light, a beer in my hand, and a victorious smile stretching across my lips. I had done it. I had finally finished the game my father had started. And now, I was free. No more uncertainty about my next move, no more questioning whether each choice would be my last. I had won.
My gaze drifted downward—khaki pants, brown loafers, and a blue-striped button-up, stained deep red. For a fleeting moment, my smile faltered. I thought of everything I had done to reach this point. But then, the moment passed, and my grin returned. Because that was it. It was over. And nothing else mattered.
Not the flashing red and blue lights outside my dust-covered curtains.
Not the rotting food in my fridge.
Not the stubborn stains on the rug, no matter how hard I had scrubbed.
All that mattered was that I had escaped. That my father’s voice would no longer haunt me.
“Son, the game isn’t just something you play. It plays you. It consumes you. And if you want to win… it will cost you.”
A pounding on the door shattered the silence, followed by a deep voice shouting something incomprehensible. Important, maybe. But what is importance, really? A child pleading for a toy may think it’s important, but to me? I don’t give a damn about that brat’s toy. Just like I didn’t give a damn about the pounding. Or when the door was kicked off its hinges and collapsed onto my living room floor. Or when two officers stormed in, pistols drawn, forcing me to the ground and wrenching my arms behind my back.
Because I was free. That was the only thing that mattered.
Outside, the night was alive with flashing lights and the hum of engines. Voices—so many voices—melded into an unintelligible chorus. They shoved me into the back of a car, the hard plastic seat pressing uncomfortably against my spine, but I didn’t care. The cold bite of metal against my wrists barely registered. I had time now. Time to think. And my thoughts always led back to the game.
I could never fully explain the game’s purpose, only that there were winners. And there were losers. And you never wanted to be a loser. The rules existed, but they shifted, changing like whispers in the wind. If you didn’t pay attention, if you missed a sign, if you broke a rule… you lost. No second chances. So I watched. I listened. I inhaled the world around me.
Sometimes the signs were subtle—a fleeting smile from a stranger that vanished too quickly, the scent of flowers tinged with something sour, the bark of a dog emerging from the beak of a raven for just a second. If I had missed them, if I had ignored them, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be with them. The ones who make the rules. Not as a player. As a piece.
A sharp clatter of metal against bars snapped me back. A uniformed man stood outside my cell, keys in hand, watching me closely. He spoke, his words structured, logical even. But they meant nothing to me. I smiled. Nodded. That was polite, wasn’t it? It was what I used to do as a child when I didn’t understand. But he didn’t take it as politeness. His face twisted, his brow furrowed, and his eyes darkened, consuming the whites until there was nothing left.
He unlocked the door and gestured for me to follow. I complied. The hallway smelled of piss, then coffee. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The officer stopped in front of an open room—small, with a single table, two chairs on one side, one on the other. He motioned. I understood. I sat.
Alone now, I relished the quiet hum of electricity, the cold metal of the chair bolted to the floor. But I didn’t like the mirror. It reflected the room back at me—distorted, reversed. It showed things as they would see them.
“A world turned inside out, where every truth is a curse waiting to be broken.”
That’s what my father had said about them. That’s all he ever said. But I knew he had known more. He had pleaded with them, begged them. He could have prepared me for what I had to do. For the sacrifices. But he kept his secrets. Maybe to protect me. Maybe because he didn’t want to lose.
But he did. And I didn’t.
I made it quick—for him. As quick as I could, while still following the rules. He didn’t scream, didn’t fight. He just accepted it. Like he had always known this was how it would end. Like he had resigned himself to being a loser, while I… I was the winner.
The door opened. Two men entered, long brown coats damp with rain. One had red hair, a steaming styrofoam cup in hand. The other had black hair and carried a brown folder under one arm. The red-haired man sat first. The black-haired one hesitated, watching me. I smiled. He did not return it. Just a slight pinching of his features before he masked them again.
He spoke. His voice was steady. Intentional. I nodded, smiling. He glanced at the red-haired man, who inhaled the steam from his cup. The scent reached me. Mold. He sipped anyway. I watched the swirling film on the surface of his coffee, the way it spiraled one way, then reversed.
The red-haired man spoke next, softer, but with weight. I tilted my head slightly, letting my smile fade to show I understood—whatever it was he wanted me to understand. He finished. Then silence. His gaze bore into mine, so intense that, for a moment, I saw my own reflection in his pupils. And then—just like that—it was gone.
The black-haired man slid the folder across the table and opened it. Photographs. People I had once known. Objects I recognized. He pointed to the first—a woman, brown hair, blue eyes, twenty-seven years old. Lisa. July 17, 1997. My sister. Her arms detached, positioned above her head like a cross. The rope around her neck, her waist, her legs. The kitchen knife beside her, the one I had left behind after the party.
He pointed to the next. A man, twenty-eight, brown hair, once-brown eyes. Chris. October 21, 1996—March 15, 2025. Gutted, his insides placed neatly beside him. His eyes missing, though I still had them. That was part of the game. A test of precision, blindfolded. I had passed.
More photos. More faces. Friends. Family. Memories. I smiled, even laughed at some. If only they could see me now. A winner. They’d be proud. We’d celebrate.
The last photo. An older man. Gray hair. Bushy mustache. No smile. Stripped bare—of clothes, of skin. Slumped against the wall. His flesh draped over the couch like a blanket.
My father.
I leaned back as far as the cuffs allowed, grinning. The game was over. I had won. Finally, I could live in peace. The thought sent laughter bubbling to the surface, and I let it spill out, unrestrained.
The black-haired man spoke again. I nodded eagerly, still caught in the rush of victory. Then, I turned to the red-haired man. His lips curled, almost into a smile.
Then—just as suddenly—it disappeared.
