The dead mans hand. Most of the time you’ll know it when you’re dealt it. Other times, it will elude you until at last it reveals itself and the sharp prick of what it means will pierce your heart, like ice.

Takes the wind out of you.

Hold your breath, hoping the cards will change. Whisper a prayer in an effort to curb the outcome. Try as you may, the results are the same. Only one thing to do once those cards been dealt.

Play them.

You know what they mean. Everyone knows. The death cards. End game. It’s over. Time to pay your due and cash in.

So you accept it. Welcome it. One last display of courage. Head down, eyes front, you walk towards the impending bliss. Willfully. Gladly. Let what will be, be.

Such a peculiar game that is played. An eternal match the moment the cards are thrown. Round and round it goes, till the numbers due.

Blankly looking down, memorizing the shape of each character on each card. Trade them? Pass them? Pay to be free of them?

Play them.

The black spot, it is. Tick, tick, ticking…can you hear it? The brief glistening of light that’s left reflecting off the cards.

Breath deep. Hold. As you take that step. Too dark to see the bottom. Soft air being pushed away as the cards fall slowly to the table.

Silence grips the room. Eyes fixed. Bodies motionless. The sigh of relief as what’s to do has been done. It’s what’s been dealt.

Ad Victorem Spolias

Play them.

 

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