The Great Game (2019)

8

I paint the ceiling tiles with pictures of her. Scattered shards of her face, eyes and nose share a tile. Another tile is geotagged with fragments of her arms, torso and waist.

I can't stop thinking about our conversation before her death. How she managed to lure me in, even after I threw myself into the deep end because of her. She was toxic, there was no denying that. Still, no one deserved to go that way.

The Medium police had came quickly and ruled Emma's death as suicide despite the lack of concrete evidence pointing to that. I suspected foul play and wanted to do my own investigating but the incident was too fresh in my mind and the event only too real.

I wish someone had told me that after death, you retain all memories of the life you had. Because every little thing that I used to do with Emma was starting to come back to haunt me. Blurred pictures of her megawatt smile, her undeniable charm are seeping through the cracks in my mind but they're contorted from their original shape and structure. The dark curtain of hair that I used to run my fingers through become a thin cord that threads around Emma's neck and her smile turns sinister in my eyes. Even her laughter that used to dance, in tune with the flutter of pale sunlight sounds broken, distorted beyond recognition.

I seal my eyes shut tightly, hoping that if I displace sufficient pressure in the action, any lingering memories of her would seep through my mind. But it doesn't. Her face remains, a potrait that mocks me, coils of white fibres that interweave to form her cheeks and her skin.

A sharp rap from outside splinters the picture of her and I jerk up, back slamming against the bed frame.

"Who's there?" I leap out my bed, hands racing to flatten my hair.

There's a pause before the answer comes through.

"It's me, Death." He doesn't ask to enter but he doesn't need to. There's a tense urgency in his voice that punctuates his statement.

I head towards the entrance and throw the door open. Death stands by the door frame, his pale face scored with narrow lines of weariness. His eyes are dark pupils that mirrors the worry I feel. His hands are clenched inside his pockets, as if stifling the atoms of fear that dares to shake his image of a stronghold. Yet, my eyes catch the tremble that snakes across his spine.

I stare at him, waiting for him to speak. For a while, we both stay quiet- him, watching me with his darting, frantic gaze and me with my silent, anticipating figure.

"Do you wanna go out for a walk?" The words are ripped from his throat as his gaze leaps to the floor unsteadily. Feeling like he won't take no for an answer, I nod and we both head out.

Silence becomes an uneasy companion as we shuffle along the airy corridor, set feet above the ground. The golden white pillars erected along the grounds hold the infrastructure steady and moonlight bounces off the festoons of marble ribbons laced around them. The night air smells cold and beautiful and sounds of insects from below call out to us. Their voices are syrupy and hypnotic, matching the strokes of glaze carefully printed along the architecture.

The staircase that leads to the floors above and below sweep across the land. Rimmed with a modern black and white design, they snake like a parabola towards the ground.

As we reach the main floor, I know I can't hold my silence any longer.

"What did you call me out here for?" I ask, pretending that the natural flick of Death's gaze on me isn't setting a crimson blush to my skin.

"I wanted to talk."

All around us are restautants, going about their businesses. The entire area crawls with a moderate amount of people as they float in and drift out of the various shops. There's a quiet, serene mood that beats in sync with the tranquility of the night as one by one, people begin to fade into the black stillness.