Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Game Over

"When the blood-red sun had gone burning down,
And the lights were lit in the little town,
Outside, in the gloom of the twilight grey,
The little dog died when he'd had his day."

Rupert Brooke, The Little Dog's Day
________

- Fine... just fine - thought Don and broke the pencil. He got up and went to the window. The Dark City lived its own life - indifferent lights shimmered in the false blackness of the night.

The investigation, the fight, the nerve war of interviews, long hours of work, sleepless nights, the chase for the elusive enemy - all this just proved futile. There was nothing he could do now... maybe except for listening to the ticking of the huge clock on the wall. Tick, tick, tick tick... it counted seconds, minutes... tick, tack, tick, tack... Don swayed his head left and right, left and right, in the rhythm of some unheard music born in his tired mind...

Behind him, on the desk, next to an envelope ripped open, a message laid.
It read:

"Dear Don,
in our little game we have just reached a point where we can communicate openly. During these weeks we became closer than any other two beings in the city. The Hunter and its Prey... our minds go along the same lines - now when you know me so well that you can almost visualize me, smell me, think me, hear me, be me...

"I want you to know that I'm sorry for the things I've done. I'm so terribly terribly sorry.. and now, when you are so close.. what can I do.. It seems you left me just one way out, one choice.

"So relax, Don. It's over. You did it - you won, I lost. It's time for me to go... find some rest, sleep.

Good night, my friend, my nightmare, my shadow. I do regret we shall never meet. Oh, what a lovely game it..."

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