Sorry Game

Sorry Game

by Luna Selas

In the basement family room, I sort through stacks of boxed puzzles. The number of pieces expands, parallels our increasing maturity as my brothers and I grew up; 200, 500, 1,000 pieces from farm scenes to galaxies.

I stack the boxes in a plastic garbage bag, not to throw away, but to drop off at the local women’s shelter. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzz, illuminating the worn carpet and shabby furniture.

I haven’t been in the house in six years. Not since my mother’s stroke forced her into a nursing home. Dad had passed a decade before. When Mom died, someone had to clean out the house and put it on the market. Lucky me.

Below the puzzle shelf are board games of every type: Operation, Monopoly, checkers, Battleship, Risk. I shake out another black bag, stack the games inside for later donation.

The lid to the last game on the shelf, the Sorry game, is missing, along with some tokens. I wonder where the cover and pieces are. Mom had been OCD about preserving everything we ever owned. Not a hoarder, per se; she was neat, clean, and organized, if overly so. But she rarely discarded or gave away anything, even things no longer used. She enforced her standards on all of us. We took care of our own belongings. No books, shoes, jackets or toys were out of place unless in immediate use. We made our beds each morning before leaving our rooms. Had she known about the game, someone would have paid for their negligence.

As I muse, a slight movement catches my eye. I look up to see a young girl standing in the doorway at the bottom of the steps. Wearing a dark raincoat, she looks to be seven or eight years old. Black hair frames her face, melds into the dark hood covering her head.

She looks familiar, but I can’t place her. She stands, unmoving, looking at me with huge brown eyes.

“Who are you?” I frown, trying to place her. I know her, but the memory is like a forgotten word teasing the tip of my tongue.

“I’m you,” she says. Both the words and her expression are solemn.

Startled, I understand why she seems familiar. I don’t doubt her. I recognize my younger self. I’m not afraid, but mystified. “Why are you here?”

She nods to the topless game box and pulls her hand from her jacket pocket. Two tokens, one red and one black, lay in her small palm. She holds them out to me. “You opened the box, so I came to give you the missing pieces.”

My child-self motions with her other hand, and a second door opens next to the first. “You lost them, but I’ve been saving them for you.”

She motions me to follow her through the door she created. It leads into a room with a double bed. My brothers, teenagers, lay in it, deeply asleep. The girl gestures to the wall behind the bed. “Remember when we wished a monster would come and save us from the secret game?”

I gasp as long forgotten memories flash through my mind like pictures in a view-master. Click: being touched. Click: missing clothes. Click: strange smells. Click: anger. Click: guilt. Click. Click. CLICK. I remember … all of it. Shame sours my stomach.

On the wall behind the bed, a shape coalesces. Huge and dark, with too many arms, tusks curl up from the sides of its fleshy red maw. Black eyes dot its face, and ram horns curl over the top of its leathery head. Thick gold rings dangle from flat, misshapen ears. A bone pierces wide nostrils. Bracelets clatter on wrists and ankles. Around the creature’s neck, small skulls adorn a thick leather cord.

The beast solidifies and steps out of the wall, three-dimensional. Bowing to the girl and me with crossed arms, its wide smile reveals rows of jagged teeth. The creature leaps on top of the sleepers. Meaty fists pummel my brothers, muscled arms driving like pistons.

I watch, horrified, as they take the beating, bruised and bleeding, but still unconscious.

“Stop! Enough!” I scream the words, hands clasped over my thudding heart.

The punisher looks up at me, nods once, and fades away.

I don’t stop the brutality because I feel sorry for my wretched brothers. I end it because, watching it, I feel a deep wrongness in myself.

My younger self frowns. “Why did you make it stop? It’s what we wanted.”

I kneel and rest my hands on her slight shoulders. “Because hurting someone helpless isn’t right.”

“But they hurt us!” Her voice is plaintive.

A tear slides down her cheek, and I wipe it away with my thumb. “They did. And I’m so sorry you carried the memories all by yourself for so long. I didn’t mean for that to happen. You helped me remember their awful game, and you don’t have to hold the pieces anymore. That’s my job, from now on.”

She snuffles, lower lip trembling. “What will happen to me?”

The question catches me off guard. I consider my answer for a moment. “I think now we visit each other whenever we want. And watch out for each other, be good sisters.”

Child-me looks thoughtful. “I’ll be the little sister, and you’ll be my big sister?”

I nod. “Yes, like that.”

She blinks. “What about our brothers?”

“They can’t hurt us anymore. Patrick is dead, and Eric is too ill to cause any trouble. Everyone’s gone. It’s just you and me now.”

She extends her little finger. “Pinky-swear we’ll always be together?”

I curl my finger around hers. “I promise you will always be my sister. I will always love you, and I will never abandon you.”

Then I hear faint counting, as though someone is speaking from far away.

I hug my small sister. “I have to go for a while, but we’ll be together again soon. Will you be okay until then?”

The girl nods. “I can see you, even if you don’t see me.”

“Good! I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She slips from my arms and sits cross-legged on the thin carpet. “I’ll wait here.”

The counting draws my attention, pulls me somewhere else.

“Three, you’re safe and rested. Two, your memories are clear and complete. One, you are fully awake.”

I blink and stretch in the recliner, half incredulous, half accepting of the surreal memories. “I know the younger me is an alter. Is the monster one, too?”

The therapist nods. “One holds your trauma, the other your rage. Integration begins.”

End