“Take your time,” he says, smugly. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Whatever you choose will be the wrong move.” He leans back in the chair, his hands hooked behind his head.
Usually, my shadow clings so closely I barely notice him—lurking behind my back or under my feet. I only catch glimpses in mirrors, glass, or the black screen of my phone before I fall asleep.
But when a decision needs to be made, he slips into sight, taunting me with that familiar, twisted smile. It’s a coy little game he plays, surfacing only to deride me and dial up the pressure when I’ve a task to do.
“Just like every other choice,” he chuckles. “You’ll hem and haw for as long as you can until the clock runs out—or you’ll rush, missing some crucial detail. But it doesn’t matter, does it? Because you know, and I know, that you will fail. Like always. College, work—someone else always swoops in to clean up your mess. You don’t have a clue what you’re doing. It’s been that way all your life.”
I want to tell him he’s wrong. That I wouldn’t take something on that I don’t understand. But he knows better. I glance at the goban. Minutes have passed, but I haven’t a clue where to play.
His grin widens. “You’re good at pretending.” He puts his feet up on the board. “At first. But they all figure it out. And all secretly mock you for it.”
He’s right. They always find out. I garner respect and recognition initially, but at some point they all witness the blunder and lose faith.
But what options does that leave me? I can persist, with everyone believing I’m a failure. Or I can give up, with everyone knowing I’m a failure. The only winning move is to keep playing, even if that means I lose.
My stone clicks against the board. I meet his gaze and say, “Then that’s their problem.”
His smile falters. He peers at the clock, and I watch as his form slowly deflates, dissolving back into the shadows of the chair.
I don’t yet know if I made the right move, but at least it’s mine.
© 2024 Copyright — Forrest R. Roberts, All Rights Reserved
