Author Games: Ace of Spades

Finals: Ren Cayse

"Are you okay, Cayse?"

"I am okay." 

"How do you feel, Ren?"

"Never better, sir."

"Have you ever blamed yourself for what occurred at Milena Seble?"

"I have not, ma'am."

"Did you try to stop what happened?"

"I tried my best."

"Are you happy, Ren?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"How about we schedule another appointment, hm?"

"As long as you keep asking for money, I'll keep coming."

Change  was often very much associated with time, and, in the seven years that  things had become safe and settled, everything had changed. "Everything"  was classified as little things that, when put beside an image of what  it'd been like before, had stark differences. Children had gone to  university and came out as doctors, and lawyers, and business  executives, then they'd grown and gotten married and built a family in  their little boxes.

Yes, people and places changed, but the little boxes and what they contained did not.

The  way the sun beat down still made Ren sweat as he twirled the steering  wheel and went down yet another familiar lane. Kids still biked their  way through the streets and raced one another, and later, they'd all  still be sent to summer camp just like Ren had when he was younger.  Houses were still situated in cramped rows, the same design, with the  same sorts of families inside. They were all made out of ticky-tacky,  and to him, they all looked just the same.

Up  an off-road he drove, up to acres of seclusion, not the hillside, but a  cliffside, where his home sat, still a box, but not quite as close to  the rest.

The  day had only seemed to drag on with conversations he never really  wanted to get involved in, with smiles and laughs that weren't genuine,  with little falters in his speech as he realized that the people that  surrounded him only sat there for the sake of collecting his bills.

The  day had dragged, yes, and so did his feet as he used what was left of  his energy to slam his car door shut and walk his way up to the door of  his house, his home, and fumbled with keys he'd used a number of times.  It was late enough that the white hot light hanging above the porch was  on, but not so late that it was pitch black outside. It was more of a  darkening blue, light but dim. Soon the black would spill over. It  always did.

He breathed in the fresh air while he could until a click sounded in the door, and he pushed his way inside.

He  was discouraged when he found that the lights were on, as was the  television in the living room to the right of him, displaying the  regular news cases of massacres and murders, because things never change, do they, Cayse?

He  was quick to drop the bag at his feet and slug the suit jacket off his  shoulders, hanging it up on a hook by the front door. His shoes, tight  and blistery, were kicked off soon after, and once he'd made himself  comfortable he stepped forward, ready to head up to bed and end the day  like he would any other night.

At his first step, however, he heard the chink of a blade being jammed into wood.

Slowly, with nervous laughter bubbling up on his lips, he looked to the left and shrugged. "Honey, I'm home?"

The  man stood behind an island in the kitchen, his hand wrapped around the  handle of a knife pushed deep in the center of a chopping board. Lights  were bright behind him, making the brown hair atop his head shine and,  frankly, making a scene Ren would've expected to find in a horror movie.  It was solidified by a playful smirk on his lips. "You missed dinner."