Part of me idly wondered if I was improving during our matches; my opponent was taking an uncommonly long time thinking through their next move.
Knowing that I lacked the requisite patience to be an enjoyable adversary, I began talking, despite my better judgment. My voice soft and self-aware.
"My father used to tell me about these dreams he had. I hated my father. Worthless human being. But sometimes, stories-- or advice, I guess?-- that he would tell me would sometimes just stuck in my head. Anyway. I remember him telling me this story once that .... I never forgot.
He'd be standing somewhere, in a dream. An orchard, maybe. Or a forest. Somewhere alone. And he'd be standing back to back with Death-- almost like a pair of colonial duelists.... did people duel with pistols then? I dunno. It doesn't matter. Anyway. So Death would start walking. Not fast or at any particular striding speed. Death would just walk, directly away; opposite the way my father was looking. Death would walk like it had all the time in the world. Almost as though it was sightseeing. Strolling? That seems like the right word.
Anyway. So, my father would tell me that... sometimes? that'd be all of the dream he could remember; he'd wake up from the dream, not recalling anything else. And he'd go about his day, having forgotten it.
But then, maybe a few weeks later, he'd be in the same scenario. In the middle of nowhere, for no apparent reason. Only these other times, Death wasn't standing back-to-back with him. In fact, Death was nowhere in sight. And yet somehow, my father knew. Just randomly-- like, inherently, or something-- he knew to say--"
"....'Death, come back.'"
The rustling voice of my opponent gripped my heart like a vice, and seized my throat without hands. The stony mask of my competitor had not moved; their gaze was still focused cleanly on the board.
Slowly, after a long few minutes, I was able to swallow and breathe again.
Somehow, I knew to not ask how--or why-- it was that they knew.
For some reason I could not explained, I was compelled to continue. I began speaking again, even softer than before.
"That's right.... yeah, that's right. 'Death, come back.' And when he said that, he said that Death would be summoned again, standing back-to-back with him again.
And every time, Death wouldn't say anything. Death would hesitate for only a moment or two, and then would begin walking again. Same as before. In a straight, unhurried, unerring line.
Sometimes weeks would pass between dreams, and sometimes it would be months. Maybe sometimes, it'd be a year or more. But the dreams always came again, eventually. He'd be again the some woodland place, and he'd remember to call Death back.
Because he knew, somehow.... that if Death ever made it all the way around the world-- walking that slow, straight line-- and my father drifted to sleep ... and woke in his dream to find Death looking him in the face.... if he ever failed to summon Death back to begin again. He'd be done.
Death would look him in the face, and collect him."
My story was quickly swallowed by the silent sound of cherry blossom ash and the suffocation of only faint illumination. Silence prevailed for a short time, before my opponent raised his head. Looking at me with unseeable eyes, their voice said:
"That's very interesting...."
The stare of the emotionless mask dropped back to the board again.
".....that he told you that."
11:50 p.m. - 2014-12-30
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