Opus

2. Child's Play

I walk down the block, away from the confrontations. My thighs ache. Quads are the biggest muscles in the body, right? Hence, I figured keeping track of my points on my thighs would be the simplest way to go. Turns out, skin, whatever muscles it shields, is still skin. It bleeds. I'll keep using my thighs as a scoreboard, though.

Primo, there's not enough light to start writing.

Secondo, everyone knows scissors trump paper. Hence, I rather stroll around with a blade in my fist than a pad and pencil. Rocks (and old bricks) are aplenty around these parts, so why should I bother to carry any? Besides, throwing rocks when it's lights-out is ineffective.

Terzo, thanks to the damn lack of working lampposts, I can barely read the faded streets name signs, yet alone some scribbles I would have made hours earlier.

Quatro−I don't have a quatro, but I love the number four, so I do everything in four. Call me crazy

I find a certain nobility in marking myself. The pleasure in the pain. My blood for the game. Scarification in lieu of Braille. Whatever. If only I could bleed all over those stones, that my blood rots the entire playground in its wake.

Rule 2: Catch the highest number of spheres and win! Yellow spheres (visual targets) are worth one point. Blue spheres (heated targets) are worth five points. Black spheres (vibrating targets) are worth fifteen points.

Third set, I have it down to an art. I search stealthily, the blade in my right hand, my left outstretched ready to touch my next sphere. Granted, my left forefinger has caressed anything from spheres to bricks to dead rodents to grass to moss to oil, blood, shards of glass, dirt, slime, and decaying human flesh. Can't wear gloves, though, nuh-uh. There's no rule against it per se, but spheres react to skin contact, they're temperamental that way. How do I hate thee game? Let me count the ways.

I skip further into the shadows. Chocolate cake. Apple pie. Strawberry shortcake. I need a fourth dessert from which to choose. Ah yes! Crème brûlée! That is my goal. At the end of this set, I will stuff my face on crème brûlée. I don't care how far I'll have to go to find some. I don't care how much I'll have to pay, whom I'll have to bribe, seduce, torture, crème brûlée I will eat.

Dreaming as I am of the creamy sweetness to come, I almost miss the two spheres squeezed into a glassless window frame. Which idiotic computer program randomly decided to place two targets side by side? It's nearing the end of the set. Taking just one sphere would look suspicious, but can I take both spheres? Without letting go of the knife, I brush my right wrist on my right thigh, then my left wrist on my left thigh−My pants are ruined, no surprise there−calculating the cuts.

I know the mean score and the standard deviation of each set that's been played in the last twenty-four years. The competition has run for longer than that but, call me egocentric, the contests that occurred before my lifetime bore me (truthfully, I loath the competitions, period). Besides, I'm aiming for average here, but not freakishly precisely on the average. Wouldn't want anyone to notice I'm keeping a purposefully low profile.

Yup, I can indeed mark the two targets. Those additional twenty points mean I'm done for the set. I drop the chips and my knife into my bag and flex my fingers a few times to relieve the cramps. I'll creep to my gate, find a spot to lay low (maybe even nap in some nook for what little time remains) until I can splurge on crème brûlée, yay!