A Game of Kings
It was like looking into a mirror. Everything was an exact replica; the crooked nose, sunken cheeks, even the bald spot that glimmered through 8463’s shaggy facial hair. Peter himself was clean shaven but he recognized that spot immediately, it was the reason he had never felt comfortable growing a beard. 8463’s hair was unkempt, several curls hung in its face and one clung to an overgrown eyebrow. He couldn’t see the eyes, they were sunk deep in bone and were shadowed by the low light of the light bulb that hung directly above their heads. Although he couldn’t see them, he knew exactly what they would look like.
Peter watched as it moved the black pawn. 8463 swiveled the piece with rough fingertips, its fingernails were long and packed with grime. A twinge of disgust grabbed his senses and Peter felt as if he himself was dirty. He methodically wiped his hands against his jeans.
“Your move,” 8463 said. Its voice was deep and slow as a river. It flowed through Peter’s mind. My voice, he thought, it even has my voice.
Peter studied the board, he was doing well and only a few of his pawns were missing. He had never been good at chess but he supposed that would mean 8463 wouldn’t be either. He stifled a chuckle, hoping it didn’t notice. He made his move and collected a black pawn. As strange as this was, his mood was light.
“It’s your m — .”
8463 had already made his move, a white rook was gone. Peter blinked and looked at the board.
“That was quick,” he said and looked up.
It was staring. Their eyes locked. Peter felt his pulse quicken and some tiny beads of sweat began to line his forehead. His mood began to fade. Its eyes glared at him, unmoving. It was as if it was looking through him. Peter didn’t understand how but he knew that it was studying him. As if something had not only stolen his body but was also penetrating and prodding at his mind.
Peter cleared his throat and swallowed hard. He tugged at the sleeves of his tweed jacket and rubbed the rough fabric between his thumb and forefinger, a nervous habit he had had since childhood.
“So they call you 8463, right?”
“That’s not my name,” it whispered.
“What is your name then?”
“Steven.”
A hot rush of blood swam through his body and he knew that his face was beginning to flush. It was impossible, it didn’t make any sense. How would it know that? It couldn’t. It was ridiculous, I’m just being paranoid, he thought. Peter took a deep breath and steadied his voice.
“Why do you call yourself that?”
“You know.”
Water was dripping from somewhere. It dripped against the floor and echoed a methodic rhythm within the dark room.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter said. The red in his face deepened, a stream of sweat ran down his temple.
The room was damp and dark. The concrete walls were brown and looked eery in the light of the single bulb. The table between them was a slab of rusted metal and didn’t reflect any light.
8463 collected a white pawn and twiddled it between his mangled fingers. Peter’s eyes sunk to the board. His king and queen were safe, two bishops, one rook and three white pawns peppered the board. He watched as 8463’s fingers molested his pawn. He looked at his own hands, same mangled fingers, same claw-like grasp and the same dented thumb-nail decorated his left hand. He should have studied the game he thought. He wanted desperately to win and he wished he knew his next move.
“What’s wrong Peter? Do you not like my name?” It thin lips slid up over yellowed teeth in a devilish smile.
Peter slithered his tongue between his top lip and teeth, he felt the crooked front tooth, the same crooked tooth that he now saw in front of him. He looked down at the board and moved a pawn forward. He grabbed the black piece and set it on the table with determined force.
“I like your name fine, 8463 has a nice ring to it don’t you think?”
Its smile faded for a moment but then only broke wider. Peter’s stomach turned.
“Steven. Steven, Peter. You know that name don’t you?” Its voice was smooth, calm as winter.
“Look I don’t know any Steven and I never have. Whatever game this is it’s not going to work. The only game here is this one, so make your move.”
“He was so quiet wasn’t he? Everyone loved him, boy-o-boy did they love him. Mom and dad, teachers, neighbors…your wife.”
A stream of sweat ran into Peter’s eyes, it burned but he ignored it. His thoughts were thick, as if they had solidified. His muscles tingled and tensed. A black rook fell out of his hand and clanged against the metal table. The buzzing of the light bulb pulsed in his brain. A fly flew through the darkness and landed on his forehead. He swatted it away with a slap. “
Shut up.” He had a lump in his throat and his voice cracked with an embarrassing squeal.
It laughed in a terrifying, morose way. It was the same laugh that took hold of Peter when a hilariously sinister thought brushed through his brain. He used to laugh that way when he would burn ants with a magnified glass. He used to laugh at how quickly they had tried to run, back and forth, back and forth, they tried to hide. Peter knew that laugh, he knew what it meant in his own mind and it scared him.
“Oh Peter! You’re killing me!” It slapped its knee with a hand. Against its slacks, the slap made a horrible high-pitched noise that made Peter cringe. It retrieved the last of the white rooks and its voice settled into the same slow and cold tone once again.
“Poor Steven, oh how he loved you.”
“Please stop, please stop,” Peter sighed. Tears formed in the corner of his eyes, he choked them back.
“He was weak wasn’t he Peter? He was weaker than you and you knew it.”
The tears broke free and ran down his cheek, feeling like acid on his skin. Anger tightened in his lungs. “How could you possibly know this?” he whispered.
“It’s your move,” it said.
Peter had almost forgotten about the game. His eyes danced wildly at the board. A king and queen, two bishops and one pawn remained. Black pieces were everywhere and came in on him at all sides. He prayed for a move, he couldn’t think. He couldn’t recall his strategy. He couldn’t lose, please God don’t let him lose. He pushed his pawn forward.
“I know what you did.”
“I didn’t do anything. Steven died. That’s it. Everyone dies eventually.”
It knocked down the white pawn and brushed it off the board.
“He died so that you wouldn’t, isn’t that right?” it said.
8463’s smile widened. It enjoyed this. Peter wanted desperately to jump across that little metal table, pound his fists into its face. Batter it until blood flowed and bones cracked, he wanted to see that face become something that was no longer his.
“Fuck you,” Peter hissed.
“He was your twin but that didn’t stop you, did it? The same blood ran through your veins. He had something that you wanted didn’t he? You knew his organs were stronger than yours.”
The smooth calmness in its voice sickened Peter. He wished that he would have never agreed to this. He heard the sweetness of his wife’s voice in his mind. She had tried to convince him not to come. “It makes it harder,” she had said. He should have listened.
“His death was an accident,” Peter said, his voice was hoarse.
“You killed him,” it said quickly.
Peter couldn’t move. His legs felt like weights in dark water. He couldn’t lift his arms. His sweat ran cold and he could taste the saltiness of the beads that collected on his lip.
It wasn’t true he thought; it couldn’t be true. Yes, Steven had died but he hadn’t killed him. He had told Steven about every risk but they were brothers and Steven had loved Peter enough to do anything to save his life. The doctor’s even agreed that Steven was stronger and had more chance to survive with only one kidney. The doctor’s were wrong, it was their fault not his. It wasn’t true. He hadn’t killed his own brother. Steven had made a choice.
“It’s not true,” he whispered.
Peter was losing. He was down to a king, queen, and one bishop. The pile of black pieces beside him seemed small and insignificant. The game itself felt insignificant and Peter could no longer recall the point of it all; yet he had to win. He couldn’t fathom the thought of losing. He couldn’t lose to this thing, this horrible creation. He took a deep breath and tried to focus. He squinted away the remaining tears from his eyes. The cold stare of 8463’s eyes on his face tingled through him but he didn’t look up. He studied the board quietly.
After what seemed like hours, Peter made his move and collected a rook. 8463 moved a bishop without looking at the board.
“How’d you get so good at chess?” Peter asked in a shallow attempt at a change of subject.
“Because you could have been,” it replied.
“Look 8–4–6–3, I have had just about en-”
“I prefer to be called Steven,” it interrupted.
“I’m not going to call you that, I’m calling you by what you are and you are nothing but a heart and a liver. You have no name.” Peter had never felt so angry. It boiled in his mind and he prayed for the game to be over.
“You would be nothing without me and you will be dead soon,” it said with its routine calmness, “check.”
“You know nothing about me!” Peter quickly maneuvered his queen to protect his king.
“I know everything about you Peter, I remember every book you read when you were a child. I know the way your mother smelled and what your father yelled when he was drunk. I remember the first time a pretty girl got you aroused. I know what it’s like to fuck your wife.” He slid a finger in and out of his closed palm. Peter gritted his teeth. He used to do that same gesture while joking around with his wife and the thought of doing that now now sickened his stomach. The room started to spin, he wanted to kill it, he wanted to see its blood on his hands.
“I know that you killed your brother,” it said.
“How could you possibly know so much about me?” Peter stuttered. He tried to sound strong and solid but his voice fell away like rain water down a sewer drain.
“Because I am you, Peter.”
“You are my heart. You are my liver. You are not me, you will be destroyed so that I can live,” Peter said, his anger melting into a quiet bout of hysterics.
“You are a murderer, you killed your brother to live and soon you will do the same to me.”
“You were not designed to live. You can’t murder something that was designed to die.”
Peter collected a black bishop and slammed it on the table with a force that shook the remaining pieces standing on the board.
“Check!” Peter shouted. He started to laugh but stopped. He had heard that same laughter only minutes ago coming from something that he hated, something that was the worst part of himself.
8463 protected his king and collected Peter’s last bishop.
“Goddammit!” Peter yelled.
“Calm down Peter, you’re going to give yourself a heart attack,” it said with a smile, “then what would I do?” Its face seemed darker somehow as if it was only a shadow on the wall of the room.
“Go fuck yourself.”
8463 moved his queen close to Peter’s king, “Check.”
Peter had forgotten about the board, the pieces and his compromised king. He didn’t care about the game anymore.
“I can’t wait to feel your heart pumping inside me, knowing that you are gone,” he said.
“You underestimate me Peter,” it said,
“I think you’re full of shit,” said Peter, sarcasm dripped off each word, “but please, by all means enlighten me sir.”
He had a sudden urge to run for the door, he didn’t want to know what 8463 had to say. He was done listening, he wished he had never come, he wished it was all over. Soon he would have a new heart, a new liver and a new life. Things would get better but for now it was a chess game, a game of kings and he couldn’t let it win.
“You and me, we’re exactly the same Peter. I see what you see, I feel what you feel, and like you, I will do anything to live.”
“You might look like me 8463 but you will never be me,” Peter said, his voice shaking and edged with panic.
“But I will Peter, I will be you.”
Peter suddenly understood, he knew exactly why he was invited to meet 8463 today. He didn’t want to believe it but he knew. Deep inside, he knew that 8463 could be him, would be him. Nobody would ever know the difference. Peter’s eyes locked on the door, it was only six feet away but he knew he would have no chance.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about; you weren’t designed to be violent.”
“Peter, I was designed to be you. I am everything that you are and everything that you have ever been.”
8463 stood, he looked monstrous in the shadows. The metal table scraped against the linoleum floor, the chess pieces fell over and some bounced against the ground.
“Please.” Peter slowly rose to his feet, grabbing his cane to support his weight. 8463 took a step towards him.
“Peter, call me by my name,” it said with a voice tinged with a hint of sweetness.
“No, I won’t, I can’t. You aren’t him,” Tears rolled down his cheeks, fear gripped his insides. Cold fingers gripped his heart. He backed towards the wall.
“Call me by my name Peter!”
Peter’s body hit the wall, the damp concrete felt cool on his back. He was now face to face with 8463. Peter could smell its breath, it was putrid and sour. Peter could see a dim glimmer as it pulled a kitchen knife from his coat pocket. The steel was cold and the blade pinched the skin of his neck. The blade pressed, a trickle of blood ran down to his collarbone.
“Call me by my name.”
Peter swallowed hard.
“Steven! Please! Oh God! Please don’t kill me, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s too late for that Peter. We both want to live and we both know that I am stronger than you are. One might call it survival of the fittest,” it said with that demonic laugh.
“Please Steven.”
The blade pressed and dragged across his neck, a gurgling sound escaped from Peter’s lips. He felt the tendons in his neck give way.
“Forgive m-”
He crumpled down to the floor like a heap of dirty laundry. A warm liquid flowed onto his chest, warming his chilled skin. He watched the hanging light bulb as the light stretched and blurred. It began to dim into a shadowed darkness. Icy hands grabbed his collar and pulled his body forward, he felt as if he was floating. His neck cracked loudly as his head flopped back. He heard the slow, repetitive breathing of someone next to him, the hot breath tickled his ear and flowed down his neck. His own smooth voice penetrated through him. His voice was low and whispering. It was a long moment before Peter could piece it together and it chilled his last remaining breath.
“Checkmate.”
