by Amy Cross
"I get it!" I say, raising my voice a little. "I get it! Honestly! But I can afford to take a few days off! Believe it or not, I'm way ahead of my studies. I could afford to take two fucking weeks off -"
"Please don't swear," she says.
"I could afford to take two weeks off," I continue, and the conversation stops dead. We drive on in silence for a few minutes, and I stare out the window at the gray London streets. Rain is starting to fall more and more heavily, as if the heavens are welcoming me home with a special display. Finally, I turn to look at my mother and I watch her for a moment. She looks so normal, as if nothing has really happened. "Sorry," I say.
She pauses, keeping her eyes on the road. "For what?" she asks eventually.
"About Dad," I reply. "I'm sorry about Dad".
Another pause. "Yes," she says finally, and that's the end of that. She reaches across and switches on the radio, bringing up some inane chatter-fest where Londoners bitch and moan about pot-holes and unreliable public transport. At least the silence is filled, so neither of will feel the need to say anything. Turning to look back out the window, I see that the rain has got even worse. Usually when I come home, I can put up with my mother's coldness because I know I can retreat to spend time with my father; this time, that option has been taken away. This week is clearly going to be an unmitigated nightmare.
Three
1895
"I'm ready".
She stands in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but the robe I gave her a few minutes ago. By any standards, she is an attractive young lady. Her eyes, in particular, are filled with a sparkling intelligence that makes her seem extremely confident. In many ways, therefore, she seems absolutely perfect for the game, yet I know from experience that it can be a mistake to make predictions. She might yet turn out to be fragile and weak.
"What do you think I'm going to do to you?" I ask, standing in front of her.
She stares at me, and for the first time I think I see a hint of fear in her expression.
"You must have an idea," I continue, but she doesn't reply. "Tell me, Sophia. Why did you agree to come here today?"
"To play the game".
"What game?"
She pauses. "The game you told me about".
"Do you think you have a chance?"
She nods.
"Okay, Sophia," I say, deciding to get started, "here's what I want you to do. I want you to slowly slip the top of the robe off your shoulders and lower it to your waist, but no further. Can you do that for me?"
She pauses for a moment, and then she does what I ask, exposing the top half of her naked body. I step forward and reach out to touch her large, round breasts, finding them to be firm and rather pleasant. My thumb brushes against her left nipple; at first it's soft to the touch, but as I continue to stroke it, I feel it become a little harder and after a couple of minutes it feels rock-solid. Smiling, I look into Sophia's eyes and see without a shadow of a doubt that she is ready for me.
"The path you are about to take," I say, cupping her breasts with my hands and giving them a gentle squeeze, "is not an easy path". I lean closer. She opens her mouth, expecting me to kiss her, but I hold back a little. "All the stories you have heard are true," I say quietly, "but they are only the beginning. This is not a game for those who expect to win easily. In truth, it is not a game for those who expect to win at all. The only prize is to continue playing for as long as possible before, eventually, you lose. It's very, very important that you understand what you're getting yourself into".
"I do," she whispers.
"I wonder," I reply, reaching down and parting the robe a little further, so as to reveal the first few black hairs of her crotch. "So many girls have said they understand, but they have all been wrong".
"What happened to them?" she asks.
"Why do you want to know?" I smile as I run a finger against her black curls. "If you're so certain that you'll win, why would you care what happens to the ones who lose?"
"I'm not like them," she says.
I smile. "That's something else that they all say," I tell her, moving my hand up to her bare waist. "No matter what I tell them, no matter how hard I try to make them understand before the game starts, they always underestimate the challenges they will face. I always see it in their eyes... that moment when they realize they've gone too far, and of course by that point they also know it's far, far too late to stop".
"I'm different," she says.
I run my hand up the side of her body. "I'm sure you are," I say finally, trying to hide the sadness in my voice. It always starts like this, with the girl defiantly promising me that she'll be different, and yet it always ends the same way. Sometimes I wonder if I still have the appetite to play the game, but I always end up coming back for more. It has been a long time, though, since I even considered the possibility that a girl might be able to stay the course, yet with Sophia there is a little extra spark of confidence in her eyes. I can't help but wonder if she is made of stronger stuff than most.
"Look at me," she says, reaching down and removing the last of the robe. "I'm ready for you. More than ready. I want you".
I take a step back and admire her naked body. She is indeed a great beauty. It's hard to believe that she is the daughter of a common schoolteacher, and that in normal circumstances she was have been doomed to a life of hard labor. She would have lived and died an unremarkable life, unnoticed and ultimately unremembered. Now, though, she is going to enjoy a brief moment of brilliance and then... Well, who knows? My cynical side says she will flare and then crash like all the rest, but for the good of the game I must remember that there is at least a possibility that she will succeed. Some day, some girl has to show an aptitude for the game, and I pray that I will be the one who finds her.
"Come with me," I say, taking her by the hand and leading her across the room. Reaching the doorway, I indicate for her to go ahead, and she immediately walks to the bed before turning back to me and smiling. I start to unbutton my shirt, but she hurries over and pushes my hands away.
"Let me," she says eagerly, smiling as she starts to undress me. I let her do it, and soon she has removed my shirt and dropped it to the floor. Her hands run across my chest before eventually moving down to the top of my trousers, which she starts to unfasten. She kneels before me as she finally slips the trousers down, followed by the last of my underwear, and finally my erect penis is exposed. Looking down, I can see a hint of surprise in her face; the girl has probably not been with a man before, yet I'm quite certain she will do everything she can to hide her inexperience. As she reaches out and takes the shaft of my penis in her hand, I feel myself swell slightly. It has been a while since I have been so excited by a girl, but there is something about Sophia that gives me hope. Even if we were not playing the game, I would still want to be with her tonight.
"Go to the bed," I say, and she obediently gets up and walks across the room. I follow, watching the movement of her buttocks. She has, without a doubt, one of the finest figures I have ever seen on a girl. Just twenty-three years old, and she has the body of a goddess. "Stop," I say as she reaches the bed. "Turn around".
She turns to face me, a slightly nervous smile on her face. I climb onto the bed and beckon for her to join me. She lies down on her side, facing me, and it's clear that she's not quite sure what to do next. I gently roll her onto her back and climb on top, and she opens her legs to expose the warm, welcoming wetness beneath the thatch of pubic hair. Usually, I would pause to play some little game of foreplay, but tonight I find myself compelled to simply start making love. I move along her body, feeling my erection brush against the inside of her thigh. Reaching down, I guide myself to the entrance of her vagina, and then I slowly start to slip the tip of my penis inside. She is pleasingly wet and tight, and I gently slide myself further and further up into her body until finally we are engorged together and she lets out a little gasp.
Is this it? Have I finally found the girl who will su
rpass all others and win the game? As she opens her legs to receive me more fully, I start to wonder if she might have the mental fortitude to at least reach the next level. Only once before have I ever felt such potential in a girl, and now I feel that Sophia could go even further. We start to slowly fuck, and I she runs her hands down my back as I hold her tight and feel her hard nipples press against my chest. She might be the one; she really, truly might be the one. Filled with a sense of excitement that I have rarely felt before, I lean down and kiss her on the lips, pushing my tongue into her mouth as she clasps her hands against my buttocks. Is Sophia Marchant the girl who will finally win the game and end a search that has lasted for more than a century?
Four
Today
"Guess what I'm doing!"
I pause. "Um..."
"You'll never get it! Not in a million years!"
Sitting on the end of my old bed, in my old room, I listen to Jess's excited, crackly voice coming out of my laptop speakers. She sounds totally buzzed and totally excited; it's almost as if she's on another planet, compared to the stillness of my parents' house in London. Jess is one of those people who can stay awake and bubbly for days on end, never running out of people to hang out with, or things to do, or funny little pills to take. She's a one-person party machine. Even talking to her over the phone, when we're hundreds of miles apart, is kind of exhausting. The two of us are so insanely different, it's pretty weird that we're best friends, but somehow I always end up tagging along with her and she always seems to like having me around.
"You're having sex with some random guy?" I ask. To be honest, I'd be shocked if she wasn't having sex with some random guy. It's what she does.
"Close," she replies, laughing, "but no cigar. And that's a clue, by the way".
I sigh. "You're smoking a cigar?"
"Not quite," she says. "I'll give you another clue. I'm sitting here with a guy named Robert, and he's got a huge cock". She laughs. "Okay, now what do you think I'm doing?"
"You're blowing a guy," I reply. "Jesus, Jess. You know, if you're busy, you could've just not answered the phone. I promise I wouldn't have been offended".
"Fuck off," she says, "of course I'm gonna answer the phone! I wanted to make sure you're okay. You were acting pretty weird last night".
"Was I?"
"Totally," she replies. "I mean, most people cry when they find out their Dad's dead, but you just carried on getting ready for the party. It was like nothing had happened. You seemed totally focused on all the boring shit we're normally doing. I mean, fuck it, I had to pretty much force you to get a train home this morning".
I pause, not sure what to say. She's right, but does it really matter? Different people cope with bad news differently. I'm sure I'll cry at some point, but there's no point forcing it. It'll happen when it happens, like most things in life. Until then, I'm totally fine. Damn it, I phoned Jess because I wanted some inconsequential chat about our Bristol lives, not so that we could talk about my father.
"I should let you go," I say eventually, hoping to wriggle out of the conversation.
"No way!" she shouts back. "Don't worry about Robert. I'm giving him the hand-job of his life right now. So tell me how you're doing. You okay?"
"I'm just sitting here in my old bedroom," I say, glancing around at the walls. It's so weird being here these days. When I moved out three years ago to go to college, my mother immediately cleaned all my stuff out, leaving the room empty apart from the bed. It's not that she had anything in mind for the room, or that she needed the space; she just wanted to prove a point, and to make me see that it's not really my room any more. It's pretty pathetic, the way she has to be so fucking passive aggressive all the time.
"You're just sitting in your room?" Jess asks.
"Yeah," I reply.
"Is that it?"
"I guess".
"Sounds exciting," she continues. "How's your dear mother doing, anyway?"
"As endearing as always".
"That bad, huh?" She laughs. "I'm joking. I like your mother".
"Try living with her," I say.
"Fair point," she replies. "Listen, I think I have to go. Robert's getting to the point where he needs my full attention, if you know what I mean. Talk soon". With that, the line goes dead and I'm left sitting alone on the bed, trying not to imagine what Jess is doing at this exact moment, and trying not to feel slightly jealous that she gets so much action.
Wandering out of the room and along to the top of the stairs, I figure I might as well see if a shower will wake me up properly. Now that my father is gone, the best thing about coming home is that I get to use the power shower my parents had installed a few years ago. Back in Bristol, our student house has this weedy little dribble that sprays cold water over you; here, there's this monstrous device that unleashes a deluge of warm water. Once I'm standing naked in the cubicle, I turn my face up to the ceiling and feel the water cascading down onto my face. If I could just stay like this forever, I'd be happy: completely naked, completely warm, and completely alone. Who needs the rest of the world? Who needs other people and stuff and places and all the crap that comes with being alive? I'm happy right now. This is everything I want in life and more.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I realize it's time to get out and go rejoin the real world. Switching off the shower, I slide the door open and step out into the steamed-up room. I walk over to the mirror and use my hand to wipe a clear spot, and then I do what I always do after a shower: I stare at myself. I don't know what I was expecting, really, but I look completely normal, as if nothing has changed. You'd never know that my father died less than twenty-four hours earlier, and that I've been forced to come home and spend time with my horrendous mother. I just don't look upset at all. Damn it, what's wrong with me? Why do I look like this cold-hearted bitch who doesn't care? Why am I not breaking down in tears? I guess I take after my mother; after all, she's not exactly breaking down in tears either. We're both just running in silent mode, getting on with what needs to be done and putting on a brave face. In my case, at least, it's not that I'm not showing my emotions, it's that my emotions are refusing to come out in a normal way; sometimes, I wonder if they're really there at all. I just want to cry about my fucking Dad's death, but I can't do it. Something's still holding me back. Something's wrong with me.
As I start drying myself, I keep glancing at my reflection in the mirror. I wish I looked less normal. I mean, Jess really stands out in a crowd: she's beautiful and she has this great smile that really attracts people, whereas I seem to have this default frown that I can't seem to shake. In almost every other respect, I'm pretty average: I'm average weight, I'm averagely good-looking, I have an average body with average breasts. Seriously, I'd win a Miss Average competition with no problem. There's not one thing about me that really stands out as being special or unusual. I guess that's one of the reasons why, at twenty-one, I'm still a virgin. I mean, I could have had sex at college by now, if I was willing to just throw myself at random guys, but I'm kind of holding out for someone who at least seems to like me. It doesn't have to be some great big romance, or love at first sight, or any of that other bullshit; just a guy who seems to be interested in me for who I am, and who maybe sees something in me that's slightly special. Is that too much to ask for? I guess maybe it is...
Damn it, what I need right now is a bottle of whiskey and a party. Maybe I should just throw myself at the first guy I see. I mean, what's wrong with being a little slutty now and again? It might do me good to unwind and take things less seriously. Jess has sex with loads of different guys, and she seems happy...
With nothing better to do, I wrap a towel around myself and go downstairs, but there's no sign of my mother anywhere. The kettle has just boiled, though, so I make myself a cup of tea and wander through to the lounge. I hate it when I get into these introspective, sulky moods; sometimes I think I'm pretty self-absorbed, in which case I can totally understand why guys aren't d
ropping at my feet. Sitting by the window, I look out at the greenhouse and suddenly it hits me: that's where he died. Almost exactly twenty-four hours ago, my father was out there pottering about, probably tending to his home-grown vegetables, when he collapsed with a heart attack. I close my eyes, imagining what it must have been like for my mother to see his body on the ground, and to have run out to help him. From the little she's told me so far, it sounds like he died almost immediately, but she probably tried to revive him. I'm not my mother's biggest fan, and she drives me insane sometimes, but it's heartbreaking to think of her kneeling next to my father's body and realizing that there was nothing she could do for him. I know it's selfish, but I'm really glad I wasn't here when it happened. I don't think I could have handled seeing him die.
As I sit in silence, I become aware of a noise somewhere else in the house. At first, it's a kind of abstract sniffing sound, and it takes a moment before it resolves itself in my head and I realize it sounds like someone is crying. Pausing for a moment, I eventually stand up and wander through to the hallway. The sound is coming from the laundry room, so I walk quietly along the corridor until I'm just outside the closed door. Sure enough, someone is crying quietly inside, and it doesn't take a genius to work out what's going on. I pause, not sure whether I should disturb my mother. She's hardly the kind of person who likes to share her emotions, and it's pretty clear that she's hidden herself away in the laundry room precisely because she doesn't want me to find her. There's a part of me that wants to go in and try to comfort her, but I wouldn't really know where to start and she'd probably just get mad at me for daring to intrude. My mother and I have always had a strained relationship, going back as far as I can remember, and I don't think this is the right moment to try fixing anything. Although I reach my hand out to turn the handle and open the door, I finally decide against it. It's not my fault; it's just the way our relationship works. I'm just about to turn and go back to the lounge, when I hear the doorbell ring.
