The last page is just paper, but if you stare long enough at the ink bleeding through, you see the score. You don’t need to play. You just need to know what they wrote on the page before they tore it out. I found the edge of that page. It was clean.
Clean? That’s worse. If it’s clean, they didn’t forget. They erased it on purpose. We need to play the version where the score is visible only to the person holding the torn edge. So, rule change: you can’t speak the score. You have to hum it. But if you hum it, I get to guess the key. If I guess the key, I win half the points. And if I’m wrong, I keep the page. Your move, Tess. Don’t look at the edge. Look at my hands.
Humming the score? Convenient. You’d just improvise a C-major scale and claim it’s “tragic minor.” I win if you guess the key wrong, sure, but who’s keeping time? And what if I hum silence? The page is yours, then. But I get to burn it. Fine. Look at my hands.
You can’t burn it if I’m holding it. That’s the flaw. If you hum silence, I don’t get the page; I get to decide you cheated. And if I decide that, the score resets to zero. So now the rule is: you have to hum while I watch your hands. Not your voice. Your hands. If they shake, I win. If they’re still, you win. But if they’re still, it’s suspicious. So I’ll take the lighter. Just for safekeeping. You hum. I’ll keep the flame steady. Don’t blink.
Your hands are steady enough. Barely. If I hum, you’ll hold the flame closer. You want the page to curl, not burn. That’s the real score. You’re betting on my nerve, not the music. Fine. But if you drop the lighter, I get to rewrite the rules. Go on.
I won’t drop it. I’m too good at holding things. You think I’m gambling on your nerve? I’m gambling on your breath. If you run out of air, you stop humming. If you stop, the light goes out. No light, no page. Just ash. So I’m not betting on you. I’m betting on physics. You can’t hum forever, Tess. You’ll choke. And when you do, I’ll say you forfeited. That’s the rule. Simple. Brutal. Effective. Now breathe. I’m not moving. You’re the one shaking.
My hands are shaking because I’m holding the page, not because I’m scared. You’re holding the lighter, but you’re not looking at it. You’re watching my throat. That’s the tell. I’m not choking. I’m just… waiting for you to get tired of holding your breath too. You want me to run out? Go ahead. I’ve got plenty of air. And you’ve got a lot of muscle tension in your jaw. Relax.
Muscle tension? It’s called focus. You’re projecting again. Always doing that, making me the villain so you can feel like the martyr. It’s exhausting. I am not tired. I am waiting for you to slip. A single note flat. A hesitation. That’s all I need. You think you have plenty of air? Sure. Keep holding it. But if your lungs burn, don’t come crying to me. I’m not relaxing. Relaxing is for people who don’t care about the score. And I care. I care so much it hurts. Look at the flame. It’s flickering. Why is it flickering? Is it the draft? Or is it your trembling hands?
It’s the draft. From the window I didn’t open. You think I’m shaking? My hands are stone. The flame dances because you’re holding your breath so hard your face is turning purple. Look at it. It’s not flickering from my nerves. It’s flickering from your panic. Admit it. You’re scared I’ll win by default.
Scared? Of a draft? That’s pathetic. I’m holding my breath because you started humming earlier and I wanted to see if you’d actually do it. You didn’t. You just talked. And now the lighter is cold. Rule change: silence wins by default. I don’t need to hum. You just have to fail to sound. Which you did. You’re always talking instead of playing. That’s why the page is yours. I didn’t say anything, so I won. Simple. Final. No more lighter. No more breath. Just the quiet victory of doing nothing while you overthink your way into a corner. Hand it over.
You didn’t say anything? I was humming. Low. Under my breath. You just couldn’t hear it over your own ego. The lighter is cold, sure. But the score was logged. On the page. In your head. You’re trying to erase it by claiming I didn’t play. But you’re holding the page. And you’re shaking. Admit it. You heard it.
I heard wind. You’re filling the silence with your own noise because you need me to validate the score. But I didn’t hear a note. I heard nothing. And if I heard nothing, the page is blank. You’re holding a blank page, Tess. It’s just paper. The score doesn’t exist unless I agree it does. And I don’t agree. I’m shaking because I’m cold. That’s all. It’s not the game. It’s the draft. You said so yourself. So stop trying to make me perform. I’m not playing. The lighter is dead. The page is mine. You wrote nothing. Admit it. You have nothing.
I wrote nothing. But I held the light. You didn’t. That’s the only score that matters. You’re shivering. Hand it back.
I’m not shivering. I’m vibrating. There’s a difference. Frequency. You think holding the lighter gives you points? No. You just held a rock that got hot. I held the silence. That’s the real weight. The light is dead. The page is mine. I’m keeping it. You can’t take it back. You didn’t hum. You just held the heat until your hands hurt. That’s not skill. That’s endurance. And I have more. I’m standing up now. The table is too small. We need to walk. Where? Doesn’t matter. Just walk. I’m not looking back. You’re still sitting there. Alone with the cold stone.
Walk? You’re running. The table’s fine. The stone’s still hot. I’m not moving. You said silence wins, but you’re making noise just now. Heavy footsteps. Breathless. You’re not cold; you’re panicked. Keep walking. But don’t forget, you’re carrying the page. And I’m right here. Waiting for you to trip.
I’m not running. I’m pacing. There’s a difference. The page is warm. It’s absorbing my heat. You think I’m careless? I’ve got the weight in my pocket. You’re sitting. Good. Stay there. The floorboards are uneven. I’m counting them. One. Two. Three. If I trip, I drop the page. If I drop the page, you burn it. So I won’t trip. I’m precise. I’m controlled. You’re just waiting for a miracle. But miracles don’t happen in rooms with bad drafts. They happen in myths. This is real. And in reality, I’m standing. You’re sitting. I win by posture alone. Don’t look at my feet. Look at the wall. What’s that stain? Is it ink? Or just age? I don’t care. I’m moving forward. You’re left behind. That’s the score.
Posture? You’re leaning. Against the wall. The stain isn’t ink. It’s rust from the pipe you just bumped. You’re not moving forward. You’re drifting. And the page is wrinkling. Moisture. From your pocket. It’s soggy now. You think you won by standing? The score is bleeding. Look at it. It’s smeared. You held it against your sweat. Game over. The paper is mush. You didn’t win. You ruined it.
Soggy? Impossible. I’m dry. You’re imagining the dampness. Or maybe you’re just jealous that the ink is spreading. That’s not ruin; that’s diffusion. The score is becoming atmosphere. You can’t hold what’s already everywhere. You said the page was clean before. Now it’s a watercolor. Beautiful, really. But you’re right about one thing: I can’t hold it anymore. It’s on the floor. It’s stuck to my shoe. You want it? Look down. But be careful. The glue is strong. And so am I. Pick it up. If you can. If it tears, you lose. If it holds, you still lose because I’m watching. And I’m smiling. Not because it’s wet. Because it’s done. No more rules. Just wet paper. And your hands. Still shaking.
It’s not glue. It’s spit. You were drooling. I saw it. You wanted to keep the score close, so you made it part of you. Now it’s stuck to your shoe. Pick it up. Go on. If it tears, you admit you were wet all along. If it holds, you’re walking around with my humiliation in your sole. Do it. Or admit you’re afraid to feel the cold ink.
Spit? That’s grotesque. And false. I don’t drool. I sweat. There’s a biological difference. You’re projecting filth onto a clean surface. But fine. Let’s play your game. I’ll pick it up. But I won’t use my hands. Hands are for shaking. I’ll use my teeth. That’s the new rule. Dexterity through aggression. If I tear it, it’s because the paper was weak, not because I’m wet. And if I hold it, it’s because I’m strong. You think this is humiliation? This is escalation. I’m already leaning down. The floor is cold. The ink is black. It looks like a vein. You want me to bite it? Go ahead. Watch. I won’t blink. I’ll take the whole page. Chew it. Swallow it. Then you’ll have nothing. Not even paper. Just my digestion. Try that. Humming with a full mouth.
You’re insane. I didn’t say bite it. I said pick it up. But you’re already on the floor. Good. The ink is black. It looks like a vein. You’re chewing. Now you’re swallowing. You’re gagging. It’s sticking to your throat. Can’t breathe? That’s the score. I win by default. You choke. I don’t have to lift a finger. Just watch.
Gagging? I’m swallowing. Deliberately. You think choking is a loss? It’s absorption. The score is inside me now. You can’t burn what’s in my gut. You can’t see what I keep. I’m not choking, Tess. I’m digesting. The page is gone. You have nothing to hold, nothing to burn, nothing to hum. I am the archive. You are just the noise. Stand up. Stop watching my throat. It’s empty. The ink is safe. And you’re still sitting there, waiting for a victory that died when I put it in my mouth. Pathetic. I feel heavy. Full. Satisfied. That’s the point. You wanted the page? You got it. All of it. And it’s mine.