The G Game

by bluemicrocosm

-- Chapter 1, Part 1 --

October 2, 12:13 a.m.

The midnight moon catches in his hair, streaks of soft gold highlighted in the picturesque darkness. Lonesome streets disappear around building corners and opaque windows reflect the city in broken, distorted slides.

Lediv smiles coldly into the starless sky. What will his parents think if they knew that their perfect son is walking alone at this wicked hour, more so on a school night? He can just imagine their shock, disappointment, anger – all bristling under a too willing disbelief because their child has never failed to meet expectations. Their child is everything they prayed for: brilliant, mature, handsome, athletic, popular. Every competition he has entered, he left with the highest honor; every girl at school swoons at his feet; every parent eyes him with awe and envy because they know that their child cannot compete.

One word from him, a half-baked excuse thrown together at the doorstep, and his parents won’t give his misconduct a second thought. It is too easy. Infuriatingly so.

A hollow laughter bubbles up from his chest, swept away into the black horizon by the October breeze, leaving traces of bitterness in the air.

Of course it is easy. How long has he been playing the role of the golden child? Years coalesce into a continuous flow of time, the tedious repetition of each passing day discounting any value in keeping track. Perhaps it began during some distant time in his childhood, when he realized that as long as he does what people expect, he will be spared of their needless concerns and insufferable questions. The conclusion that his young mind arrived at has proven correct. His parents never nag him about homework and grades, his teachers never reprimand him, his peers never dare disrespect him.

His roles, as a dutiful son and ambitious student and whatever else he is expected to be, are more stifling than stressful. Behind the dazzling illusion spun by experience and skill, his feelings fluctuate throughout the days, cresting to acute irritation, then depressing to pervasive numbness.

What meaning is there in a life that others have planned for him? Go to high school, go to college, get a job, start a family, work some more, retire, die. A manual he is expected to follow, reducing him to a nameless face in the sea of billions. He has barely entered adulthood and is already drowning in boredom; the notion of living the rest of his life to this slow, painful asphyxiation rattles him to the bone.

Lediv breathes deeply. Cold air rushes down into his empty stomach, making him feel transparent, like a ghost without a purpose. He skipped dinner, despite assuring his parents that he has already eaten. It was a blatant lie that they readily swallowed.

On more than one occasion, he considers blemishing his perfect image. Not irrevocably. Merely a stain that can be cleansed by time and future bedazzlements. A minor divergence from his normal behavior, such as this unexpected stroll through a night where lurks a serial killer.

The autumn chill bites into his skin. He should be more worried, really. The criminal making headline news these days is Roge Ferand, a serial killer who leaves his ladies in a real work of art. Bloody, deformed sculptures that the newspapers can only show blurred photos of, and even those generate a wave of nausea.

Of all nights to break the rule, Lediv has to choose this one. Yet he cannot find it in himself to care. Perhaps a twisted rationalization that he doesn’t meet Ferand’s criteria lures him into a false sense of security. He can dredge up a thousand excuses for why he is out tonight, but he just doesn’t care.

All that matters is breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Crisp air permeating jacket and skin, cooling his agitated blood, dissolving his mask under the cold, gibbous moon.

Never has it been harder to breath than tonight. The day passed with its usual tedium, but for some inexplicable reason, despondency and frustration and a rare surge of anger forced him out the door. To be honest, the effort of sneaking outside wasn’t particularly appealing, but he didn’t trust himself to keep up the façade around his family when his emotions are so volatile.

Lediv takes another shuddering breath. His shadow flickers and morphs as he treads under rusting streetlamps.

He reminds himself that it can be worse. He might have fallen into madness ages ago if not for his one and only friend. Yet friend is not a completely accurate term: rival, companion, brother of sorts… Perhaps the most appropriate title is kindred spirit. Despite their polar backgrounds, Lediv doubts that he can find anyone else who understands him as well as Kiros. Kiros disrupts the monotonous day-to-day order by pulling out the unexpected. Who else can finish a test before Lediv and leave him grinding his pencil into the paper? Who else can beat him in tennis, body soaked in sweat and flushed with the humiliation of loss? Who else can challenge Lediv in chess and Go and games that he used to believe himself superior in? If god exists, then Kiros must be god-sent.

“But even a gift from god isn’t enough,” whispers Lediv, a hysterical note underlying the bitter hiss.

Competition makes life slightly more bearable, the constant need to stay on one’s toes and strive for greater heights. Yet Lediv knows the effect is palliative and temporary. In the larger scheme of things, where does Kiros fit in? Their high school rivalry pales against the rigid road that Lediv is expected to walk.

In short, Kiros isn’t the variable that can break Lediv from his formulated life.

Lediv fists his hands in his pocket. Does such a variable exist? He doesn’t think so, and the impossibility further disheartens him.

The smooth casing of his cell phone presses against the back of his hand. He takes it out and regards it contemplatively. Then, quickly, before he can change his mind, he presses speed dial.

When he hears Kiros voice mail instead, he snaps the phone shut with a frown. Well, so much for a distraction. He has hoped that Kiros can reel him in from the depression that he is falling into like quicksand.

Lediv wanders around a corner, concern lacing into his frown (though it’s such a relief to be fixated on someone else instead of himself). Kiros never turns his phone off. Not even during final exams when teachers threaten to dish out failures for any electronic devices left on. Only extenuating circumstances can explain the oddity.

Deep in thought, he absentmindedly passes an alley entrance. A muffled moan and the rasp of fabric startle him into attention.

In the pale strip of moonlight, the brawny back of a man jerks to and fro as he carves art into flesh. Thrust against the brick wall is the canvas: a young woman, bound and gagged, her face claimed by white death and her torso painted blood red.

Lediv stumbles back in horror, knocking into a car parked by the curb and triggering the alarm. As the man begins to turn and the body crumbles to the ground, Lediv is already fleeing down the street.

Heavy footsteps chase him like the beating of demonic drums.

Cursing inwardly, Lediv swerves around a corner, grappling for the cool rationality that is his most reliable tool. Yet panic shrouds his mind, the innate reaction to danger shoving him blindly forward.

No, he must think. Traveling in a straight path is like surrendering; he might as well just give up now. Unfortunately, he isn’t as familiar with the area as he likes to be, a disadvantage compounded by the distortive shadows that redraw faces and shapes of buildings. Meandering aimlessly through the streets increases the likelihood of disorienting himself. If Ferand suffers the same geographical dilemma, however, then Lediv has a better chance of escape if he winds his way through the city blocks.

His sneakers squeal as he turns sharply at another corner. Rushes down that street. Turns again. By running in a circle, he will return to his original location. If Ferand is smart, he might catch on to Lediv’s strategy, but from the string of expletives breaking the stagger of footsteps and raspy heaves, that risk seems negligible.

He feels like he is racing through a movie set, where the classical and modern edifices are cheap cardboard facades, where the director will call “Cut!” any moment. There is something surreal about the whole affair, a tense silence as if an invisible audience perched on ornate capitals and wooden eaves is holding their breath to watch a scene being filmed. The rusty garbage cans on the sidewalks gleam with artificial sharpness. The wane streetlights bring objects in and out of focus, like a camera lens continuously being adjusted.

Lediv tears through the night, tossing the expectations weighing down on him into the rush of autumn wind. Fear and desperation unshackle his feet. He roams for his life, the taste of exhilaration so wonderfully sweet among the concoction of logic and instinct.

If I turn again, I’ll be back at the alley. Ferand’s not far behind. Fine, then. I’ll weave my way through these streets, then double back.

His eager thought is punctuated by the clanging of metal.

Good, Lediv thinks, slipping into a wide passage between two buildings. He must’ve crashed into those garbage cans. That’ll put some distance between us.

His smugness vanishes when the passage ends at a cement wall. Swearing, he searches frantically for something to climb onto. The wall is at least two feet higher than him. If he jumps, he might be able to scrape his fingers along the top – if he’s lucky. No, there isn’t time to climb. He’ll have to fight.

Footsteps halt at the entrance. Resumes at a deliberately leisure pace that echoes their malicious intent.

Taking a shaky breath, Lediv turns, his stance wary and defensive.

Ferand stands partially inside the illumination of a floodlight on one of the walls. Blood shines on the tops of his shoes and specks his jeans. Red footprints follow him, trailing into the darkness between him and the open street.

“Kid, don’t you know to mind your own business?” sneers Ferand.

Lediv can feel his nerves fraying at the edges, unraveling like ribbons at the sight of the knife in Ferand’s right hand. Blood has dried on the blade, creating a grisly venous relief.

I can’t show fear. People like him feed off of the fear of their victims. But he’ll see courage as insolence, and that’s like asking to die. I have to talk my way out of this, at least, long enough to find an opportunity to escape.

Swallowing thickly and keeping his voice neutral, Lediv says, “I didn’t mean to see –”

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is you saw. And that, kid, is a very, very big mistake.”

Author's Note: As a kind reviewer noted, chapter 1 was way too long (an entire seven pages that probably scared half of the readers away). Therefore...you have this: Chapter 1 separated into two parts. Hopefully it will be less intimidating :)