Game Over

by Thorn of Lily

I knew who he was, from the beginning.

We played around the same words, covering the truth with silk, trying to maintain our lives, our continuity.

I understood his plans as he understood mine, at the latest as they were put in motion, but it didn't matter. Our Fight was for proof, if he would leave any, and I would bring it to light... Or if he would kill me first.

We walked around the end to the beginning and back, and no one seemed to notice. They saw a mere pair of boys, maybe creating ties of friendship. After all, the subtle messages were destined to our ears and eyes, only. Only we understood, though sometimes we used different methods for each complication, ordering peons and unraveling hidden signs like magic for them.

A game of chess, a play in which the backstage is even darker than presented to the public, where everything shown has infinite hidden meanings, impossible to discover, and yet, easy to deduce.

He, the Black King, the perfect youth.

I, the White King, the nameless traveler.

He had few pieces beyond his queen... the faithful fan. But knew how to obtain peons easily, men and women that he blinded and directed in obeying his whims slowly, terribly, hungry and satisfied at the same time. Always cleaning his bloody steps and changing shoes before entering the stage once again, without forgetting his black queen, following him to the end, faithfully, blindly.

I had more pieces since the beginning, but he forced them, one by one, to retire from the board. The first few left on their own, and the ones left he controlled and eliminated bit by bit with his plans. The public nothing said of the perfect youth, and shrunk in themselves when hearing the backstage murders. He had no opposition, not among the mass he calmly walked in.

And still, no matter how much blood covered our hands - as it has been a long time since I was truly innocent, even if only one person knows this - we continue going around our words, covering and uncovering the truth, reaching the point where we were covered in so muck silk of lies, just so the truth about ourselves could not be seen, heard, spoken... and we choked one another, purposefully.

There was a whisper between us. We did not discuss who asked first, there was no pride in our darker games, only an unending pleasure in hurting one another. The first to whisper lost the round, it would be the most wounded by the end.

These darker games were simple and lacked any moral. We used the time where we were abandoned by the others and spread the blood in our hands along our bodies. He was stained by the blood of innocents that I had sacrificed, and I could feel the blood of all those murderers, rapists, thieves, and corrupts sticking to my back, my neck, choking me without pause.

I knew he abhorred the innocent blood drying on his skin. It was horrifying, but neither of us even thought to stop. It was a game, and to ask for it's end would be to lose. By the end, already aware and separated at least by walls, we tried our best to clean ourselves; hours and hours spent scrubbing the skin of our bodies, wanting to remove the sensation of something viscous thick and warm trying to drown us, making us lose control of ourselves in those sparse moments of solitude.

What was my surprise, when, for the first time, he refused the game..?

I understood his plan from this refusal. But what could I do? How could I prove to the others who he was? Particularly now, when he wasn't anymore?

But our routine altered itself slowly, and then everything went too fast. I risked the game to him, and was once again refused. Something told me that would not last for long, and I do not know whether to curse or bless such intuition.

After all the tension, all the noise involving that infernal weapon... I risked the game. And I could only close my eyes, wallowing in silent triumph, when he accepted with an apparently docile smile. It was a smile I had seen many times, and it was his own expression of victory, of malice. He did not take his time in starting.

But he did little else than the game, and I knew, by his terribly sadistic expression, that all our games were coming to an end, and he was the victor.

I truly could not make myself mind, as he did continue with the few games still up, accepting my will to go on until I could no more. The main game was walking to its inevitable end, and with it, all the smaller ones we had started.

In the darked games there was no pride. There was no triumph or winner by the end of the games, only at the start. They were depraved games, to wound the body, the mind, and the soul. For some reason, I know we appreciated wounding as much as being wounded.

At least, he obliged my will until that moment. He knew I had admitted defeat by the return of the roof. It was not a romantic moment between a pair of friends. It was the victory of a murderer, which he rushed to take in those last moments, moving me away from eyes and cameras.

To be sincere, despite that smile while I agonized in his arms... I would be lying if I said I did not appreciate his gesture of embracing me, almost tenderly.

Despite always exchanging dark pleasures and pains, I know we both lived that last moment to the fullest.

I know... there were no dark or bitter meanings there.

I know we felt the same, inside our own possibilities.

I know, Light... that it was for this end that we met.

"It's finished."

"I won."

"Indeed..."

It was our Game Over.