Bad Games- The Complete Series
Page 71
The material was strong and fixed too deep for his fingers to get through.
His teeth.
He pressed his face into the mat-flooring, mashing his nose, gnashing and gnawing like a rat, pushing harder until his nose hurt, his teeth clasping for anything he might tear free. He got nothing.
Domino stood and wiped his mouth. His lips were dry and cracked, his mouth gummy.
“Hungry?”
He ignored her and continued walking in a large circle.
67
He should have at least tested the water somehow. Sniffed it or dabbed his tongue in it or something.
You said you’d drink your own piss.
But he didn’t have to piss. He had nothing to piss.
His tongue felt swollen and his head ached. He wiped his mouth. His cracked lips were numb. It was like touching rubbery prosthetics glued to his face.
His legs were getting numb from walking and prior exertion. He would have to crawl soon.
He should have at least tested the water somehow.
68
He’d been crawling for a while. Maybe a few feet every couple of minutes. Every now and then he would forget and put weight on his left shoulder and the pain would ignite. But that was good. The pain kept him awake.
Should he try and pop it back in? He was going to need two good arms when he got to Ben. When he got to her.
No—the thought was as futile as it had been
(how long ago?)
before. He’d popped it too many times. Nothing short of a doctor with a sledgehammer was getting the fucker back in.
Maybe he could lie down and start rolling?
Sometimes it was difficult to open his mouth it was so dry. His breath stunk like hot garbage.
It couldn’t be that much longer now until the water and keys dropped.
(you gonna drink the water?)
No. Maybe. I’ll test it—maybe.
69
Domino woke to the screeching alarm and blinding light. His head and ears and eyes and mind cried out.
Scurrying on all fours, he hurried to the opposite corner of the room, silently pleading for the onslaught to stop.
It did, their residuals still lingering and taunting his senses minutes later.
Had he fallen asleep? No—he hadn’t. He was sure of it.
“But I wasn’t sleeping!” he meant to yell. He managed “but” and then his voice cracked, followed by a fit of dry coughing that shredded his arid throat.
You’re gonna have to drink the water. And she knows it. The bitch knows it.
“You know it, don’t you?” he said to nobody next to him. “Well I don’t give a shit anymore. I’ll drink your fucking water, but only because I want to; not because you say so. Got it?”
How long has it been? And he had been sleeping. Deep down, he knew he’d dozed. He remembered lying in bed with his ex. She would keep a night light on and read. He would close his eyes for a second—a second—and she would wake him, insisting that he’d been snoring. Impossible, I haven’t even fallen asleep yet! he’d say. And yet it happened almost every night. Because he had fallen asleep and started to snore.
He had fallen asleep.
Get off the floor. Get to your feet again. Can’t be much longer now.
70
The sound of the gears grinding above. The ceiling would be opening. The water would come. Time was up. Thank God, time was up.
He stared at the ceiling, waiting, his spit-less tongue licking his lips without his knowing.
The ceiling door wasn’t sliding, wasn’t opening. He’d heard the gears, hadn’t he? That meant it was stuck. The door was stuck.
“Monica!” he yelled, despite the protest of his raw throat. “Monica, the door is stuck.”
She didn’t answer.
“Monica, the door is stuck! The ceiling door isn’t opening…Monica!”
The last shout of her name caused another coughing fit, and the pain only angered him further. When the coughing subsided, he said, softer now: “You’re cheating again. You’re cheating again. You’re cheating again.”
(you sure you heard the ceiling? Maybe you started snoring without realizing, woke yourself up. The snoring was the ceiling)
The alarm never went off. And I’m on my feet.
(you’ve slept upright before)
But I didn’t fall asleep.
(wonder what the ex would say if she was here? Just be grateful it was only for a tick. I’d still move though, just to be safe)
Domino shuffled sideways. His legs gave out and he fell onto his side. His shoulder screamed at him.
“I wasn’t sleeping—she was cheating again.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I know you’re there, and I know you’re cheating again. You’re cheating…you’re a cheater…”
71
It’s not that I’m thirsty or tired…it’s that I’m thirsty AND tired, and the thirst is making the fatigue worse. But I know that. And if I know it, then it’s no big deal. It just is. And I deal with it. Thirsty and tired. No big deal. Thirsty and tired.
He rubbed his wounded palms into his eyes then blinked rapidly.
She won’t win. Even when I drink the water, she won’t win. The water will hydrate me and wake me and make me better. She won’t win. Thirsty and tired is all. Thirsty and tired…
“Dom?”
He spun, eyes wild and going over the dark room.
It was empty.
Who said my name?
(you did)
No I didn’t.
(so who said it then?)
She must have.
(didn’t sound like it came from above)
There’s no one here.
(Patrick used to call you Dom)
That’s crazy.
(the Sandman wants the mind…)
My mind is fine. I’m fine. Patrick’s dead.
(is he?)
YES. I watched him die.
“Dom.”
Domino spun again. Someone was in the room; he saw them dash away in his periphery the second he spun.
His eyes became more frantic than ever; they combed every corner, every inch.
No one was in the room.
A thought suddenly occurred to him. One that ran fingers of ice down his spine. Just because he’s gone, doesn’t mean he’s not here.
Softly, he said, “I’m sorry. You have to know I’m sorry. You have to know.” He turned to the wall, rested his forehead against it and closed his eyes. “You have to know…”
72
Domino heard the ceiling gears grinding again. He was on his knees, crawling and rolling every few minutes. His legs were Jell-O.
“Burn me once,” he said, refusing to look up.
But the sack dropped next to him. Or did it? He could see it. He blinked and blinked and it was still there.
“Burn me once,” he said again.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Monica asked.
Domino looked all over the room. “You in here?”
“Time’s up, Domino. How do you feel?”
“You think I don’t know,” he said. “But I do.”
“Know what?”
“Everything.”
“Good for you. Shall we move on?”
Domino glanced over at the sack again.
Take it. Drink it. But not because she says so.
“Not because you say so,” he said.
“Alrighty…”
Domino touched the sack. It was real. He opened it and grabbed the bottle of water, ignoring the keys.
Test it.
He screwed open the cap and tossed it. Brought the open bottle to his nose and sniffed. He smelled nothing.
He dipped his pinky finger into the neck of the bottle and brought it to his swollen tongue. He tasted it. Waited…dipped and tasted again. Waited…
It was plain water.
“Do you plan to drink the whole bottle like that? ’Cause if you do I’m going to take a nap.”
“Not because you say so.” He brought the bottle to his lips and started to chug. Immediately he began to choke. It was not from any kind of poison, but from a mouth and throat imbibing too fast after being without for too long. He knew better.
When the coughing stopped, he sipped slowly and steadily. The relief was sex after a dry spell.
Finished, he tossed the empty bottle into the corner. “Not because you say so.”
He stood and shook out his legs. He would feel better soon. More alert. What had she said? One more room until Ben?
(are you really counting on her word?)
No, but I’m gonna win…I’m gonna fucking win.
“I’m gonna win,” he said. He bent and took the keys, then looked up at the ceiling. “Last room until Ben?”
“Correct, sir.”
“It doesn’t matter if you’re lying,” he said. “You know that, right?”
“Why would I lie?”
“’Cause you’re a cheater.”
“Oh, just the one time. Hold a grudge much?”
He shook his legs out some more. Shook his head vigorously. He was feeling better. “You won’t win.”
“So you’ve said. Shall we continue?”
“Let’s.”
Domino entered the last room until Ben.
73
The metal door slid shut behind him. The locks clanked home one by one. The room was empty. No treadmill, no rope, no mat-floor. Across the room was the final door. Behind it, Ben—or so she said.
He heard a child crying. It was faint and distant, but there.
“Hello?”
The crying was a little louder now. It was not Ben; these were the cries of children.
“Hello?”
“Daddy?” a little girl’s voice answered. Not in the room, but close by.
“Who’s there?”
“Daddy?” A boy’s voice now. Like the girl’s, it sounded close.
“Who’s there?”
The crying again—louder now.
Domino headed towards the far door that led to Ben. The closer he got, the more the door receded. He stopped suddenly. How was that possible?
He took a step, the door receded. He took two steps, the door receded further.
He spun and faced the door he’d come from. It was gone.
Spun back to the Ben door. It was gone.
His eyes went all over the room, wild and confused.
“Daddy?”
He spun again. The door was back. Both were.
“Daddy?”
Domino ran to the Ben door, raised a fist to pound on it, and saw that his fist was covered in one of Monica’s sacks, the smiley face smiling, then, somehow, looking at him with frightened eyes, the line for a mouth moving on its yellow face as it spoke. “Daddy?”
Domino shook his hand furiously, as if a wild animal had attached itself.
The children started crying again. Domino looked at his hand, and the smiley face was crying too.
Domino sprinted for the other door, trying to outrun the illogical his eyes insisted on.
Amy was at the door. He stopped his charge so suddenly he almost tipped over.
“Amy? Amy, what—?”
Amy turned her back on him.
He lurched forward, grabbed her shoulder and spun her. Her face was the smiley face. Domino took a step back, hesitated, then touched it. The face dissolved like droplets hitting a water color.
Domino closed his eyes. “I’m not seeing this. Any of this.” He opened them. Amy was still there, but the smiley face was back. It was grinning a malevolent grin this time.
Domino closed his eyes again. “I am not seeing this.” He opened them. Amy was gone.
“Daddy?”
Domino looked down. Carrie and Caleb were at his waist, looking at him with lost eyes. He flinched and stepped back.
This was impossible. Impossible.
He turned his back on the two kids. “This is impossible!”
Monica’s unmistakable voice now, laughing as she spoke. “Do you know that I didn’t even drug the first three bottles? You could have drank them!”
The walls started…breathing. He could hear them and see them—expanding inward and outward with each breath, their wooden structure now like pliable dough. He looked up and the ceiling was sagging, the same pliable dough that made up the walls now failing to support overhead. He instinctively ducked then squatted.
Get up, you fucking idiot; it’s not real.
He stood bolt upright, stumbled but caught himself, then shouted: “It’s not real! I know it’s not real!”
“You know, the thing about taking a trip like this, is that it can be good or bad, depending on one’s state of mind. How’s your state of mind, Domino? Still feeling as guilty as I think you do?”
“NO.”
“Really? I know two adorable kids who miss their father very much.”
“Daddy? Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?” The voices alternated back and forth between boy and girl.
“That’s not them! You’ve got some kind of…recording…it’s not them!”
The sound of children crying again.
Now the sound of a woman crying—sobbing.
Domino dropped his head and shook it.
“How much do you love me?”
Domino’s head popped up. It was Amy’s voice—no question.
“Too much.” It was Patrick’s voice—again no question.
“How much?” Amy.
“Three much.” Patrick.
Impossible, impossible, impossi—
The room went black.
One of the walls came alive with choppy light. Another movie, like the others.
Except nothing like the others.
74
Domino watched in disbelief as Patrick kicked the soccer ball around the field with Caleb perched high on his shoulders.
Patrick was then gone, but Caleb remained suspended in air, moving around on the shoulders of no one.
“Daddy?”
A rapid cut to a distant view of a graveyard. A close-up of Patrick’s tombstone.
Loving husband, father, son, and savior.
The sound of children crying again.
The sound of the woman sobbing.
The tombstone’s inscription then changing…
Loving husband and father.
Dead because of Domino.
Domino turned away from the film and closed his eyes. He could hear the contents of the movie change; they were back in the field. Amy’s voice, the kids’—all laughing, playing. Patrick’s deep voice periodically cutting in with laughter of his own.
It’s a trick; it’s all a trick. It’s not real.
(but it is real)
Huh?
(Patrick is dead)
Shut up.
(Amy lost a husband)
Shut up.
(the kids lost their father)
SHUT UP! Why the fuck are you telling me this!?
Domino opened his eyes and went back to the movie, hoping—in a horrific irony he would never realize—that the film would distract him from the betrayal of his mind.
A picnic. The soccer ball was gone, the family now gathered on a large blanket. Patrick said something inaudible and Amy shoved him. Patrick bounced back and pulled her to the ground, kissing her while she protested with laughter.
Patrick was gone again. Amy was on her back, laughing and fighting off someone invisible.
Another rapid cut to the tombstone. The altered inscription again:
Loving husband and father.
Dead because of Domino.
Children crying. The woman sobbing.
The movie cut off like a switch. The room was black again.
“Daddy?”
“How much do you love me?”
“Too much.”
“How much?”
“Three much.”
“Daddy?”
Domino swayed and stumbled in the dark. Closing his eye
s was making things worse; his lids took no mercy in re-playing the recent images that tore at his heart.
He opened his eyes, and the kids were there. In the corner, huddled around something. Domino approached. Carrie and Caleb turned and faced him.
“Something’s wrong with Daddy,” Carrie said.
“He won’t play with us,” Caleb said.
Domino looked over the children and saw Patrick’s gray corpse sprawled out on the floor, eyes wide and lifeless
Brother and sister turned on each other.
“It’s because he’s dead, stupid,” Carrie said to Caleb.
“He is not!”
“Yes he is. He’s dead. Daddy won’t play because he’s dead.”
Carrie, still facing Caleb, pointed her finger at Domino. “Ask him! He’s the one who let Daddy die.”
Caleb turned and faced Domino. “You let my daddy die?”
Now Carrie faced Domino. She crossed her arms and huffed. “Well didn’t you?”
Domino stuttered. “I…I didn’t…”
“Dom…” Patrick said.
Domino pushed past the kids and knelt beside his friend. “I’m here, brother.”
Patrick’s dead eyes came alive and his gray skin was normal again. “Can we go now?” he asked. “I want to go home. I miss Amy. I miss my kids. I want to go home.”
Domino nodded emphatically, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Gonna do that now, brother.” He squatted and scooped Patrick up into his arms. “Gonna do that right now.”
He turned towards Carrie and Caleb with their father in his arms. Quickly, he said, “Kids, get the door. We’re taking your daddy home.”
Carrie and Caleb exchanged funny looks.
“He’s dead, stupid,” Carrie said.
“Yeah, stupid,” Caleb added.
The kids exchanged funny looks again, then started to laugh.
“Get the door!” Domino shouted.
The kids stopped laughing. They looked annoyed now.
“What fucking door?” Carrie said.
Caleb laughed.