(Kyle)
I stare at the deck of cards resting on my work desk. A lighter is in my right hand; my left index finger is tapping on the glass table.
I pick up the deck and empty it from inside its box.
The game has begun.
It’s a dirty, cruel game.
The first card in the deck is the joker. I’ve always found it funny that the joker meant killing the person you love the most. It’s even funnier considering there’s a joker at the end of the game, too, as if love can be found at the end of such a dark tunnel. I understand why killing the person you love would be the first task –and it’s morbid to think of why such a thing was thought up in the first place.
If you can kill the person you love the most, you can do anything else, because no one else would be worth the risk of losing the game. Every task after the first joker would seem like nothing to do –require less effort and risk little to no emotional attachment.
I raise the joker and stare at it in the light.