A Game

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Games. '''

Some things in life have purpose. Some things in life, merely happen.

The room was cubical. A dirty, stained brown carpet that would make even a homeless man cringe, was disguised in the darkness of the night. No light, save the beams of the soft gallant moon broke into my room in long horizontal slits one after the other. The slits of light warped around the fabric of my blanket as it hung off my bed. It stopped half over, leaving the rest of my room in darkness.

Nothing for furnishings decorated my room. Wooden paneled walls with small holes from nails and thumb tacks was all I had to my name, save my bed, some articles of clothing, and maybe a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. Which all rested in the suitcase on the floor at the foot of the bed.

Has anyone remembered ever playing hide and seek? You would wait. Under a clothed table, in the darkest place you could find. Making blankets and piles of clothing, ramshackle visual cover from the person seeking you.

Your heart would race, heavy thumps so loud that you thought the seeker could find you. You would watch from under the bed, from beneath a crack in the covers, or an opening between a shirt and some jeans. Watching their sneaker-clad feet pace as they searched and take a moment to ponder. 'Don't find me, don't find me.' Those words pound in your head, the thoughts so full and audible while you're thinking that your breathing gets heavier, and the pile of clothing or misshapen blanket starts to move, and in the dead silence came the faint sound of some breathing loudly through their nose. You feel your protective shell leave you, and no longer are you safe, found you help find the rest of your friends. It was over, that feeling of possibly winning left you in a sigh of disappointment, you'd get up and be on your way.

Have you played tag. You're running, keeping your distance from the chaser. Your body is in a hot sweat. When suddenly you become the new target of interest. You turn, hitting the ground running. Trying to make distance, hopeful whoever is chasing you will lose interest. Already exhausted, you feel your muscles shutting down. Becoming numb and sore as you exert every last ounce of energy to the preservation of your ultimate goal. Keeping away.

Until their hand fell upon you, like the touch of God. Saying it is your turn to chase the others. Tired, you become the new thing and assume your role of chasing the other people amidst your group.

I've been playing hide and seek, and tag for far too long.

I'm thirty two, and I'm tired of these games.

I guess you could say I'm the only human being able to evade the most notoriously unknown entities that have chased the immortal soul of God's creation.

I've held my breath longer than any Olympic swimmer. I've ran faster than any track star to date.

Small things that I feel shreds of pride for, but in the long run mean nothing.

You can run, always run, and you can hide, if only for a little while.

But as I lay here, on top of the covers, a bouquet of roses placed beneath my hands which clasped them at the base. The card explaining everything to the Police who would find me was on the night stand next to me. It's written in pencil, and you can't see the lightly cursive writing in this dim and dark room. A black tux graces my tired and fit body. Diamond cuff links and white spats. The constant slivers of moon light were interrupted as a wave of darkness passed through them. For a moment I was scared, but I loudly swallowed and faced my fear. It was merely accepting the fact that there came the faint sound of breathing. A sickening wheeze and the stench of something rotten entering the room. The stench is so strong, as the light all fades away. I smile, having displeased whatever hid itself in the darkness. Obviously it didn't like the sportsmanship of my attitude. The stench drew closer.

Four A.M. as blue and red sirens flashed through the windows of neighboring slums. People came out to view the ruckus as a detective walked carefully through the motel to the quarantined room. The lights were in here, and everything was neat, not a drop of blood, not even an imprint on the body. Just the bouquet of roses, and the note.

<span style="color:rgb(51,51,51);font-family:'lucidagrande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;line-height:17px;">An officer right by the door looked in curiously, an inexperienced rookie, new to the force. "What's it say Detective?" He asked curiously.

<span style="color:rgb(51,51,51);font-family:'lucidagrande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;line-height:17px;">"It says you should mind your own business. Malinowski."

<span style="color:rgb(51,51,51);font-family:'lucidagrande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;line-height:17px;">The young blood settled with the sarcastic rude remark and returned to guarding the crime. The detective picked up the note and softly whispered out loud the contents of the cursive message.

<span style="color:rgb(51,51,51);font-family:'lucidagrande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;line-height:17px;">"I give up."