Diamond
They say he was born with a heart of stone.The game becomes a battle. The boy becomes the father. The protected becomes the protector. The price of loss grows exponentially. The marble cast aside on the school-ground becomes the livelihood with which you are fed and clothed. The snack once forfeited becomes not only your future but that of your kin, your last blood, your first and last bond. Your heart is no longer the thing that beats so frailly in your chest, but the small body that reaches for you even in sleep.
The toy becomes a dream, the dragon becomes a myth. You touch the card but linger your fingertips over scales, rough and tactile – a material harder than diamonds, a thing that gleams brighter than quicksilver.
Your thirst is for revenge. Your hunger is for power. Your lust is for only that thing which cannot break, which can never weather or bow down. It is the flawless thing you saw long ago, amidst the untidy scrawl of crayola, the light blue that flaked under your nails.
The game becomes a battle. The sneer becomes the weapon, the words the lance and the coat a thing to wave, fling into your opponent's eyes. Your heart is not the thing that beats in your chest; it is the kin who has your mother's eyes. It has become a material harder than diamonds, a thing that gleams brighter than quicksilver -- and it roars, roars with both anguish and triumph for the boy that became the father, roars for the child who shed all other dreams much too soon.
No child is born with a heart of stone.