Make Your Move

• Nadia Cash, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2016

I keel over, coughing and wheezing; my lungs feeling paper thin in the bitter cold air. An icy frost creeps over every blossom of life and the howling wind causes the giants of nature to creak and groan. I look up to see the chestnut stallion galloping towards the hills at full speed. The horse’s calves strain through the knee-deep snow, and the boy’s sheepskin cloak billows behind him in the wind. I stand riveted, watching the companions until they become nothing but a speck in the distance.

The boy reminds me of my own son, James; how innocent and curious he was. A warmth grows in my chest as I remember the long winter days James and I spent sitting in front of the fire playing checkers. Hours passed as our minds grew in knowledge of one another’s strategies. Our games began as a lesson for James; however, the older and more experienced he became, the more he was able to teach me. These checker games served as a symbol of our close bond, he as my young, more brilliant self. That was the last fond memory I have of my son.

After James’ death, grief engulfed my every being until I began living my life through a smokescreen of pain. My wife tried to alleviate my suffering as much as she could, but it was all to no avail. She thought that she could fill the hole my son left in me; she thought that she could take his place, but the pain was too much. She attempted playing checkers with me every night, but her strategies were weak and her attempts futile. My frustration built until one night, at the mere thought of James, I leapt out of my chair without warning and hurled my checker across the room. Vases smashed, window panes shattered, and the walls suffered from the hail storm inside me.

My anger remained pent-up inside me until one night, I snapped. The remorse I felt over my son’s death turned quickly to rage. My veins pulsed as I overturned the table and splintered all four chairs. My wife ran into the room and begged me to stop. Her arms wrapped around me, trying to pull me back from the place in my mind that I could not escape. She was not strong enough. The last thing I remember clearly is seeing her piercing eyes as they screamed at me to stop. Whether she looked at me in fear or love, I do not know, but what I do know is that not even she could stop me. I grabbed her arms from around me and flung her towards the corner of the room, my new-found strength leaving her fragile figure lying limp on the hardwood floor. It was only when I saw her contorted figure that the smokescreen lifted and I began seeing things clearly again. It was only then that I realised what I had done.