A Game with Death (Story)

A mere wisp in the wind, that was I with my blackened cloak billowing, as I approached the run-down house, paint peeling off of the sides. This was the home of a poor family, the Robinsons, and the soon-to-be final place of rest of a sick man, Albert Robinson.

I walk through the door of the home, for a specter requires no opened entrance, gazing inside. The house wasn't noteworthy, I've seen billions, and this was no different from the rest of the poor homes. As I ascended the dusty wooden staircase, I saw a child, a male of only a few years of age, short brown hair on his round head, sitting by himself, with a chessboard.

The child seemed to be playing the game with himself, a pitiful sight to see for one who didn't have more important business to attend to. As I attempted to pass the child, the child looked upon me-something that shouldn't be possible, for Death is but a mere specter to those not about to die-and asked me something.

"Do you wanna play with me?" The child's eyes resembled those of a small canine, pleading with me, as though the child had faced no opponent in this game of his. I was about to decline, when my mind reminded me that this was a sickly, dying man, that I was here to harvest. He would not suddenly be cured of his pestilence, so, I sat down, to play.

The boy reset the game, the ivory-colored pieces, clean and bright as snow, facing me, and the pieces as dark as my cloak facing the boy. "Your move!" He was giddy with excitement, as I sighed, making my first move.

The child retaliated with his own move, and then I made another. He retaliated once more, and this cycle continued. Back and forth, back and forth, ivory versus onyx, light versus darkness, until the child's voice sounded "Checkmate!"

I was taken aback, for Death is not allowed to lose. The games that many ask upon Death for their lives are all futile, but I accept them merely to give myself some entertainment. "How did you win?" I asked the child, suspicious of cheating-though I know that's impossible-and the child simply responded "I've been playing since I was born!"

I would *not* allow myself to be beaten by this child, and asked for a rematch. Hours pass, and I sit again, defeated. "Again." I mutter, as the pieces are set up again, the child grinning, his pearly teeth showing, finally given an opponent. Again, and again, I lose to this child.

When I next look at the oaken grandfather clock next to us, it is twelve o' clock p.m., by the next day. This child has stalled me for fourteen hours. I stood up, brushing off the faint cobwebs that have formed on my knees, when I notice that the house is no longer as dead as those whom I take, anymore. The child's siblings-at least twenty-were out and about, and there was a doctor as well, making his way for the doorway. I merely look back to the child, knowing that the doctor cannot save the man, for he is already dead. "Again." I command, sitting back down, my legs cross-legged.

The child's stamina did not seem to die even a little bit, as the hours passed by, until eventually, I win. "Victory finally belongs to me, as it always does." I gloat, standing up. "Now, child, I have business to attend to." I open the door to the sickly man's bed, to only be greeted by a healthy Albert Robinson, full of life. This is not how things were supposed to be, his death was supposed to be today, but the child has stalled me. I am not a murderer, only a harvester, and yet the crops have failed to bloom.

And so, I began to leave, gaining a glimpse at the child, who merely grinned. I realize now that the child was merely fooling me, but that is fine. This child will not have the best of me forever. A man who edged so close to the brink of oblivion will not live for much longer.

A decade has passed, countless other souls have been reaped and formed, an endless cycle of birth and death, and the child has never escaped my thoughts. Finally, the familiar house comes up again, and it is time to reap the life of the man who should have died a decade earlier. I enter the same way as before, determined this time to not be stopped. I rush through the door, before the child can stop me!

...When I see the child-now a young man, a small beard growing-is in the room, instead of his father. He grins at me, a knowing grin, one you would flash at meeting an old friend. "Do you wanna play with me?" The teenager asks me, and I am infuriated. "You have fooled me once, and I shall not be fooled once more, child. Albert Robinson shall die today!" I turn around, when I hear the mocking voice of the male siren. "Aww, you still angry about when I beat you? Alright, just live with knowing you lost ninety times to one win." I turn around and toss my scythe to the ground, sitting across. "Let's play, child. Only one game."

Yet again my thoughts become clouded in the game, as though it was an oasis in the desert of reaping souls, the one true entertainment I would ever be allowed in my immortal life, as again and again this child has beaten me like the daughter of an abusive father. "Checkmate!" Is almost all I hear from the child, now, his voice being held instead to focus on thoughts. His tactics were smarter than before, but so were mine.

Hours pass, and then days. He still has held my attention, and he has not slept or eaten, though he looks sickly himself. Eventually, I win, and quickly grasp my scythe. "I shall not let him live today, child. You do not escape the Reaper with merely a game!" I am triumphant, and almost rip the door of its hinges, scanning the house for the man, eager to finally claim the soul that has escaped me again and again!

...And I see him, with the same doctor, though older, healthy as ever. I am a broken reaper, cheated not just once, but twice, by the same child. I return to the underworld, and begin to question if I truly should be the one to take souls, if I am so easily swayed.

These thoughts go away for a time, and then for decades I continue my job. Eventually, however, one last familiar occurrence happens, and I see the house. It has been restored lovingly, looking like a small mansion, and I take my scythe, and enter the same I always have.

This time, the child's hair has turned grey with age, a large beard growing, and he wears glasses, lying in the bed his father did almost a century ago. He sees me, and gives me a grin filled with the same child-like wonder that he had so very long ago. "I hope you do not plan on trying to cheat me now, child. You are the one dying today, not protecting. You are too weak to play a game, your mind fragile." I speak the words of blazing truth, eager to finally be rid of the only person who has ever been able to taunt and haunt me, like the fallen spirit of a court jester.

He sits up, still a bit of energy left in his eyes, when he pulls out a chessboard, from behind the bed. "I knew you would come, old friend. Please, allow me one final game." He pleaded me, and I decided that I would not only be reaping his soul, but reaping his pride, tonight. I sit down across the man, and he prepares the pieces. As he prepares them, I notice the man has far more boards, crafted out of finer materials; glass and gold, jewels and silver, mahogany and ivory. And yet, he uses this old set, the one he has used long ago to defeat me.

We begin our game, a tango between life and death, a mere poltergeist and a grandmaster, the concentration of both of us reaching a critical point. No matter the outcome, he will die, but the risks are higher for both of us; If he wins, his last moments are of victory, and I cannot ever win. If he loses, he loses his pride, and I live with eternal pride, for all of my immortal life; my only rival crushed.

As the pieces move, one by one, we start to lose pieces. "You realize that if you win or if you lose, I will still reap your soul. Those are the only two possible outcomes, and either way, you die." I tell him, as I take one of his pawns with one of my own. He does not respond, for he lacks the breath to speak, using the rest of his energy to merely play the game.

Finally, when I expect him to end me with his queen-the only surviving piece but our kings-he places her beside me. "Haha! Fool, you've destroyed your chance at victory!" I gloat, as I take his queen with my king, and he grins. He grins a grin so wide that if it was used as a measuring tool it would be wider than the entirety of the solar system, as it dawns upon me. "Win or lose I die, you said. What happens in a tie?" He asks, beginning to put away the pieces.

"...You... You have cheated me three times. You have cheated the one who knows it all! The one who cannot lose! The one that all come to see in their final moments... How? How have you managed to beat me, to deceive me, for so long?!" I demand an answer of him, and he just smiles. "It is just a measure of talent, my friend. I've been playing ever since I was born."

With this, he finally shuts his eyes, accepting that he must die. I grit my teeth, and coldly laugh. Even in his death, I cannot win, but it seems I cannot lose, either. I am the Reaper, and yet I have been cheated thrice by a child. I am the Reaper, and yet I have been cheated thrice by an adolescent. I am the Reaper... And yet, I have made a friend.