When the man opened his eyes, he wasn't sure if he had been asleep or unconscious. His head throbbed as though he had been struck, and for several moments he simply sat there, trying to remember how he had gotten there. Nothing came to him. Every memory before opening his eyes seemed to have vanished, leaving behind only an uncomfortable emptiness that settled deep in his chest.

The room was dimly lit by a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Its weak, yellow glow barely reached the corners of the room, allowing darkness to consume everything beyond the center. There were no pictures on the walls, no doors, and no windows. The room contained only a small wooden table, two worn wooden chairs facing one another, and another person already seated in the chair across from him.

At least, he assumed it was a person.

The figure never moved. It sat perfectly still with both hands resting on the tabletop, one slightly closer to the edge than the other. Without thinking, the man rested his own hands on the table in much the same way. The light never reached the figure's face, leaving it hidden beneath the darkness. It wasn't the shadows that unsettled him most; it was the stillness. The figure possessed the unnatural patience of someone who had been waiting for a very long time.

The man slowly pushed himself to his feet, hoping the movement would somehow reveal an exit he had overlooked. Instead, the silence pressed even harder against him. He turned in a slow circle, searching every wall, but there was nothing to find. Wherever he was, there appeared to be no way in and no way out.

"Hello?" he called.

His voice sounded strangely hollow, as though the room itself had swallowed the sound before it had a chance to echo.

For several long seconds, nothing happened.

Then the figure spoke.

"Beat me will set you free."

The voice was calm. Gentle, even. There was no anger behind it. No threat. It sounded less like a challenge and more like an undeniable truth.

The man stared at the shadowed figure.

"What?"

The figure remained perfectly still.

"Choose a game."

"What is this? Who are you? Where am I?"

The figure ignored every question.

"Choose a game."

The man frowned and tilted his head as though trying to make sense of what he had just heard. For a split second, he thought the figure's head tilted in the same direction. He blinked, and the feeling disappeared. Then he laughed nervously, more to reassure himself than because anything about the situation was funny.

"So that's it? I beat you and I get to leave?"

The figure gave the slightest nod.

He glanced around the room one final time before sighing in frustration. If this was some elaborate prank, it had gone far enough. If it wasn't... he didn't seem to have much of a choice.

"Fine," he said as he returned to the chair. "Let's play Rochambeau."

For the first time, the figure moved. It slowly placed one hand on the table. The movement was deliberate, almost ceremonial, as though it had performed this ritual countless times before.

The man smiled.

"Best two out of three."

The figure tilted its head ever so slightly.

"If that is your choice."

The man raised his hand. The figure didn't move until he did, then calmly lifted its own. He assumed it was simply waiting for him to begin.

"One... two... three... shoot."

He threw rock.

The figure threw scissors.

The man laughed.

"One to nothing."

The figure didn't react. As the man's smile slowly faded, he thought he saw the figure's smile disappear at precisely the same moment.

It simply looked at him.

Then it quietly said,

"Beat me will set you free."

The words lingered in the room long after they had been spoken. The man couldn't explain why hearing them a second time unsettled him more than the first.

"Again," he said.

They counted.

"One... two... three... shoot."

He threw paper.

The figure threw paper.

"A tie."

No reaction.

Only the same calm voice.

"Beat me will set you free."

The man shrugged.

"Okay..."

They played again.

Rock.

Rock.

Another tie.

They played again.

Paper.

Paper.

Tie.

Again.

Scissors.

Scissors.

Tie.

The smile slowly disappeared from his face.

"That's... strange."

He leaned back in his chair and studied the figure. Maybe it was watching his eyes. Maybe it was reading subtle movements in his shoulders. There had to be an explanation.

He leaned forward and rested both elbows on the table. A moment later, the figure did the same. The movement was so natural that he almost missed it. He frowned, trying to remember whether the figure had already been sitting that way or whether it had copied him. For some reason, he couldn't be sure.

He changed his rhythm.

He counted faster.

Then slower.

He threw early.

Then waited until the last possible instant.

He even closed his eyes before making his choice.

None of it mattered.

Every game ended exactly the same.

Tie.

After tie.

After tie.

The figure never celebrated.

Never hesitated.

Never appeared surprised.

Every time he shifted in his chair, the figure seemed to settle into a similar position a heartbeat later. It was never immediate, never obvious enough to accuse it of imitation, but often enough to leave an uneasy feeling crawling across the back of his neck.

It simply matched him.

Perfectly.

Each time the game ended, the figure repeated the same sentence in the same quiet voice.

"Beat me will set you free."

The repetition became hypnotic.

The words stopped sounding like a sentence and began sounding like a law.

As the games continued, the room began to change.

At first, he thought it was his imagination.

The light overhead seemed brighter.

Not by much.

Just enough for him to notice details that hadn't been there before.

The scratches carved into the tabletop.

The worn edges of the chairs.

The sleeves covering the figure's arms.

Another round.

Tie.

The room brightened again.

He could now see the figure's hands resting calmly on the table.

They looked strangely familiar. The knuckles were scarred in the same places as his own, though he quickly dismissed the thought as another trick of the dim light.

Another round.

Tie.

The light grew stronger.

Its shoulders came into view.

Its neck.

The outline of its jaw.

His stomach tightened.

There was something disturbingly familiar about the silhouette sitting across from him.

Another round.

Tie.

The light brightened again.

He could now make out the figure's mouth.

It was smiling.

Another round.

Tie.

The room was nearly bright enough to reveal everything.

His pulse thundered in his ears. He took a slow, steady breath to calm himself. Somewhere across the table, he heard another breath rise and fall in perfect rhythm with his own.

He leaned forward.

The final shadows disappeared.

There wasn't another man sitting across from him.

There never had been.

A mirror stood at the opposite end of the table.

His own reflection stared back at him.

His exhausted face.

His trembling hands.

His terrified eyes.

He slowly lifted his right hand.

The reflection lifted its right hand.

He swallowed hard.

"No..."

He moved his left hand.

The reflection did the same.

His breathing became shallow.

"This... isn't possible."

The reflection continued smiling.

It was his smile.

But there was no warmth in it.

Only certainty.

The reflection calmly raised its hand over the table.

"One..."

"Two..."

"Three..."

"Shoot."

Rock.

Rock.

The man stared at the matching fists resting between them.

For the first time since waking in the room, he understood.

There was no winning move.

There never had been.

His opponent wasn't faster.

It wasn't smarter.

It wasn't cheating.

His opponent...

...was him.

A tear rolled down his cheek.

"I can't beat myself."

The reflection's smile widened.

It didn't nod.

It didn't laugh.

It simply spoke with the same calm voice it had used from the very beginning.

"Beat me will set you free."

The man lowered his head.

The game began again.

Outside the room, nothing happened.

Inside the room, two identical hands rose above the table.

"One..."

"Two..."

"Three..."

"Shoot."

Rock.

Rock.

And somewhere in the silence between each round, hope convinced him that maybe...

Just maybe...

The next throw would be different.

It never was.

←Home     Short Stories & Peotry→