He turns another page.
The naked bulb hanging overhead buzzes quietly, flickers. Dust motes dance in the yellowed light. The sheets of the book are nearly grey with age, ink faded and smudged in some areas. A sneeze tickles just behind his eyes and he buries it in the soft crook of his elbow, muffling the sound. Still, it booms frighteningly in the small room and he imagines that the shelves shudder, books shaking away sleep from hand-bound spines.
He turns another page.
The frantic edge of the past few days seeps away from coiled muscles, easing tensed shoulders. Some terror, some anxiety is draining from him slowly, sucked out into the stillness, so much so he could almost, drowsily, feel the press of lips against an invisible wound, drawing out poison. His eyes skitter across the page; he isn't thinking of much. He traces each move, weigh the implications like a brief touch to the back of his head.
The page crinkles with movement.
A bubble of excitement tugs at his chest and he leans forward, narrowing his eyes. He'sagenius.A finger trails along in the musty air just above the page. He sees each move, quiet and sure, steady in its advance towards victory. I should have let him play. Each move sounded out with a gentle tap of a paper fan.
His vision blurs and he thinks it's from the stale air. He blinks rapidly, a tear tipping from his eyes onto the brittle page. He startles, rubs at the damp stain as furiously and as gently as he could. He had taken so much, was given so much – from restless shifting colours blurring together day by day to steady black and white framed by golden lines. A path set out for him, a goal to run towards, someone to fight against and to fight with. He wakes each day with eyes clearer and brighter than the last, hands reaching out to grasp what he finally realises he wants.
He turns another page despite the overflowing tears. He can't see anything so he turns the page again. I should have let him play. He presses his knuckles into the hollow between his eyes, groans a strangled sob. The pressure throbbing in his temples is like the shutters had been pulled down, plunging everything back into wavering shadows and dim glimpses of the light just beyond. Everything. His breath wheezes in his chest, his heart pounding against the prison of his ribs. Everything. All these records of his games. And yet. There wasn't a single wisp of his presence anywhere, every single trace gone in the dullness of the breath he inhales. He stares down at his quivering hand resting on the page. And yet.
All these memories.
I'm the one you left behind.