Last Round

Bar. Bra. Oar. Damn it, think!

I scan the board, eyes darting back and forth like windshield wipers on high speed.

Orb. Bay? Ugh, I can’t concentrate!

The girl across the dilapidated table laughs, her giggle like the drilling screech of a chalk against the blackboard.

“Tick Tock, Taylor. Tick Tock.”

She runs her tongue over a yellow denture, the edges forming a Cheshire grin that makes my skin crawl. Her breath reeks of decay, a smothering stench that prickles my nostrils. I swallow hard and wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead.

“Are you going to play, Taylor? I’m bored.”

Fingers tapping on the wood impatiently, legs dangling, she sighs and rests her head on her free palm. She pouts like the spoiled child that she is, sending shivers down my spine. There’s something eerie about her; how her red lipstick is smudged around the corners of her lips, how her eyes nest on hollow sockets, betraying her true age. She looks eight but lacks the innocence of youth. Her childlike appearance is too unsettling to look at for long.

I glance down the board again. My mind is racing like a mouse chasing cheese tied to a stick.

If I could use that Q…

I reach for the velvet pouch, my hand a frozen claw. It's chilly. So chilly. Frigid gusts of air dishevel my hair, confetti of ice sticking to my skin. The sickly glow from the skylight tells me I've been here for long. Too long... It's been too long.

Please pick a U. Please….

“Play!” she shrieks and my hand jerks like a glitching robot. The pouch falls, scattering letters all over the frayed carpet.

“Now now, Taylor, are you trying to cheat?”

“I-I… I am s-sorry. I didn’t mean to,” I whimper and shake my head terrified.

“I hate cheaters,” she hisses, bringing her face an inch away from mine. “You’re not a cheater, Taylor, are you?”

Decomposing flesh. Rotten tuna. Spoiled milk.

My stomach churns. The taste of vomit climbs up my throat. It takes everything in me to contain my insides.

“Don’t worry. I’ll gather those for you. Now, pick. A. Letter.”

She throws the pouch on my lap and glares at me. I close my eyes, grab a tile and turn it over.

It’s a T. A goddamn T!

“Stupid game! Fuck!” I roar and slam two fists on the table panting.

“Last round.”

I mournfully select my letters and place them on the board.

ABORT. 8 Points.

“You said you were good at Scrabble, Taylor,” she drags my name. “This was hardly entertaining.”

She’s mocking me. That bitch is mocking me!

As she sluggishly returns to her seat, I see myself grabbing her hair and banging her head on the edge, blood gushing out of her cracked skull, yet I’m glued in place as if a vortex is pulling me down, down, down.

Scritch scritch, the pencil goes and then, utter silence.

“I won! Game over, Taylor.”

"No!"

N—!