Author Games: Ace of Spades

Semifinals: Aoife Callahan

One.

Stars struggled valiantly to shine through the Vegas smog, a choking film that swallows the universe and reflects only the muted city lights. The doors were open; the tempered glass had been unlocked, and I was free the second I approached the exit.

My feet had been silent on the thick, gaudily lovely carpets of Milena Sable. On concrete sidewalks, they were hideously loud, slapping the unforgiving ground so that for the barest sliver of an instant, I thought footsteps were gunshots. Ridiculous. The sound of a gun would ring forever, while in a matter of milliseconds the record of my passage would disappear.

I was old. Far from dead or infirm, no doubt, but old nonetheless. I had barely been running for a handful of seconds, yet already my lungs failed to obey me. Too-warm mouthfuls of air were choking; my ankles wailed in protest while an unseen knife twisted in my side. The case of money grew heavier by the instant; perhaps that was the last joke of the Aces, to replace each bill with a gemstone so I would kill myself lugging it to safety.

That would not be it. They were wise in the way that I was wise. They knew safety was a lie for children and the senile.

Truly Las Vegas was a strange city. No one looked twice at a woman ran for her life, carrying a case like it was the only thing of value in the universe.

Two.

Something gray was on my cardigan. I suspected it was Florence.

I wondered if I should have said something, when she looked at me, ignoring the Aces and their guns. She had been the first one they brought in, so no bodies had stained her designer shoes with red, inescapable emissions. Even at the very end I hadn't let the facade crack; my smile had been warm and inviting, giving her no clue of the danger heralded by the money at my side.

Perhaps she suspected something, in those last moments. Of course, the point is moot; if she knew, her own facade was flawless in every regard, and the confusion in her eyes deserved every award an actor could receive. If she did not know, then I envied her. She would not have felt the weight of her life, crushing her final moments into an agonizing question: Did my life mean so little?

She was a smart girl. I know she could have done great things, one day. College is a wonder for the clever and hardworking, the pretty and talented. Her intelligence and talent were nothing but a thought exercise for a coroner, as well as a stain that wouldn't disappear from my clothes even if I set them aflame.

I believe it was an American who said Everything is worth what its purchaser will pay for it. If he was to be believed, Florence would never have amounted to much of anything, and her future was worth a mere million. Perhaps she was to die the next morning in a car crash; a single day could hardly be worth a million dollars.

No. The last day of her life ought to be worth far more than such a paltry sum. This is the nonsense one receives by seeking philosophy from an American.

I reached the road. Florence fell gracefully from my sleeve.

Three.

What sort of wolf weeps as it drags away its dinner?

My father had a dog, once. It was a stupid thing, with short fur unsuited for dreary Dublin winters. I had given it little attention besides an occasional curse, as I was the one who had to scrub away the mud it tracked through the kitchen. To my brothers it was an object for casual affection and occasional torment, for even then I had learned how to scratch and bite like a furious cat and forced them to find other victims.

My mother had cared for it fiercely, as passionately as she had cared for anything that entered our house. As sunshine passed through a dirty glass window, she would cut off inedible bits of meat from a piece of chicken, smiling with a broad, ugly face as she gave them, one by one, to the eager animal.

Be patient, Aoife. If you want to befriend the dog, show control and generosity all at once. Show no generosity and the dog won't love you. Show no control and it won't respect you. The respect is key; otherwise, the dog won't wait until you leave the room to steal food. Understand?

I had frowned at her. Why will it take food when I leave? Shouldn't respect make it leave the food untouched, at least until it has permission?

That's only something people do, dearest, she said with a laugh. To a dog, respect is never stealing in front of its master. To a person, it's about what they do when the world's eye is turned away. It's the same with all the important things: mercy, love, honor. Nothing matters except the things done in secret.

I had frowned, and left her to her animal. It was then that I decided that the number of people was far smaller than the number of humans.

I had been alone when I sentenced nine people to death.

I was alone now, as I ran through the streets and wondered why I wanted to weep, but couldn't.

Four.

Four gunshots. Four endings. Florence deserved my regret. They did not.

I had heard no screams, no pleas for mercy. It seemed to fit, somehow; the Aces had been capricious and cruel in life, but strong. They wouldn't enter the void with debasement, but with laughter and icy rage.

The air was harsh, stripping away moisture as it roared down my throat. I coughed and gagged, willing to trade half the contents of the case for a single bottle of water. The container slipped from my trembling fingers, landing with a ranging thud on the sidewalk.

I was leaning against the wall of a seedy bar. Within, a con artist chuckled as he counted his ill-gotten gains, and a bartender wiped down tables and pretended not to notice. A woman winked at the hustler, urging him to come with her out of sight and spend his spoils on a different sort of con. That was what she offered: a lie so that he could pretend that pleasure was happiness.

I slid down the wall until I was sitting beside the case, weariness weighing on my limbs like the settling of a hundred thousand feathers. Uncaring of the passerby, I opened it, inspecting the treasure within.

It was wrong. Too clean; any fool could tell that the money should be stained red with the blood of Aces and innocents. I had carried it for blocks; how is it possible that an old woman could drag the weight of corpses?

It was the fruit of what I had chosen unseen. What good was it if it refused to proclaim my feral nature to the world?

Did my life mean so little?

No. Hers meant much more, while mine meant much less.