APRIL 21, 2022

800 Word Story ~ The Game of Life

Welcome to another 800 Word Story, this time a solo effort.

That means you get two stories from the same prompt. As usual, I procrastinated on this, but in a conversation with a friend a couple of days ago, a spark of an idea came to me. In the end, it’s not exactly as I had envisioned the story, but it’s morphed into something that is part truth, part fiction, and touched me in the writing. Hopefully, it touches you too.

I’m also curious to see how Bill interpreted this prompt. To read his story called “Hamlet was Right”, be sure to follow the link here.

Hope you enjoy my take called “The Game of Life.”

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Prompt: Dad gave me a wink, like we were pals or something.

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The game of life

Mom used household objects as weapons of discipline, whatever she could grab. Every Saturday afternoon, three of her friends came over for a game of mahjong. She always looked forward to it, as did I. With no such thing as sleepovers and playdates back then, chores and homework dominated my week. They would’ve taken up my weekends too if Mom had her way. She didn’t believe kids needed playtime. I was but an adult in a child’s body, an extension of her. Perhaps she never said it that way, but it amounted to the same thing: “I gave birth to you, so you could help with household duties and look after your siblings.” I understood about helping around the house, but why should I babysit? In one of my more defiant moments as a tween, I told Mom it wasn’t my job to care for my brother and sister. After all, she chose to have them; I didn’t. For that comment, she smacked me across the face so hard it gave me a nosebleed.

On occasion, Mrs. Lee, a weekly fixture at our home for mahjong games, would allow me to pull up a chair beside her if I kept quiet and didn’t fidget. I didn’t need to know the rules of the game to be fascinated by it. There was the mysterious array of Chinese characters on the tiles made from faux-ivory, the boisterous chatter above the clicking, clacking, and stacking of pieces, the caressing and meditation on each tile as lively conversation abated, only to be punctuated by slams on the table expressing victory or defeat. Then while the adults vigorously shuffled the pieces after several hands, Mom had me serve pastries and dumplings or boil water for tea. Sometimes, Mrs. Chow requested I run to the corner store for cigarettes. She always insisted they were for her husband, but I don’t think anyone believed her. Her yellow-stained fingernails gave her away. Still, she tipped me a quarter, which I spent on candy and ate before I got home so I wouldn’t have to share.

On one particular Saturday, I hid in my room when the guests arrived. For some reason, I was feeling sad and depressed. I heard my mother call me, but I ignored her. I wasn’t in the mood to play servant to her friends. After hearing my name called a second time, I turned up the volume on my stereo. If she came into my room, I’d have to pretend I was doing homework. Fortunately, about fifteen minutes later, the familiar racket of shuffling tiles like a tap-dance competition filled the house. I knew the game had started, so I began to relax.

I don’t remember how long it was before I left my room for the kitchen in search of a snack. I greeted each of the ladies who smiled at me, but I could tell immediately my mother was upset.

“Where’s Sandy and David?” I said to her.

“I took them to your aunt’s. You were supposed to look after them today.” My mother kept her eye on the tiles and the game continued.

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Don’t you dare talk back to me.”

Because she was in the middle of a mahjong game, and because her friends were here, I must’ve felt emboldened. “You never told me I had to babysit them today! Never!”

Mom pushed back her chair and stood up. The ladies tried to calm her down, but it was too late. When she grabbed my brother’s favourite lime green hockey stick, I knew I was in for a beating and made a run for the bathroom—the only room in the house with a lock. Before I could slam the door, Mom shoved the stick into the opening. I stepped backwards and fell into the bathtub. She came at me like a wild woman and dropped the stick on me several times before her friends pulled her off me.

I was sobbing when Mrs. Lee sat me down on the toilet and examined the welts popping up on my thigh. “You can’t talk back to your mother like that,” she said, wiping tears from my face. Only then did I notice the broken stick in the tub.

Mom and her friends continued their game after that, but the ladies left early. Later, I heard the family eating dinner. I stayed in my room, hungry, too afraid to go out.

In my dream that night, Dad gave me a wink, like we were pals or something. It startled me awake. When I turned on my bedside lamp, I saw a tray with food on my night table—the dinner I had missed.

It was at that moment I realized Dad had been gone exactly one year.