Mind Games

“Oh. Oh, no.” Slouched at a desk, using their fingers to rub the pain from their temples, sat a defeated figure whispering to themself, “Yesterday was Wednesday. Get it together, Keiran.” As their hand typed login information into virtual meeting software on the Reyes family PC, the joints in their fingers bulged in slack skin.

Isolation had rendered Keiran increasingly dependent on validation in the form of long-distance social media. Their lovely friends had become experts at distracting them with meaningless conversations each day; such included debates about the sincerity and morals of workplace relationships, complaining about least favorite classes, and discussing what actions to take in the hypothetical scenario that one encounters a person claiming to be trapped in a temporal anomaly. However, the amount of conversations had been steadily (or rapidly, Keiran didn’t know) decreasing. 

They had spent the afternoon working on an essay analyzing the different versions of games children often enjoyed playing. So far, Keiran had descended into never-ending rabbit holes researching the rules of two different types of games, reminiscing about all the “hide-and-seek” variants that involved chasing. The other game type was “tag”, but those were arguably less thrilling without the looming threat of being discovered. Nevertheless, the activity kept them occupied.

But it didn’t work much longer, as their mind wandered back to the pandemic. Keiran violently hoped for a diversion from the drone of their calculus professor’s voice—the modern world was not suited for differential equations—desperately enough that their prayers were answered with a notification. Only, their phone did not display the message they’d expected. The title of their school’s student app shone from the screen, followed by offensively bright red text that read, “‘Exam 2’ updated. Your grade: 0%.” 

Keiran’s loose, cracked finger skin audibly smacked their mouth, encasing fingers through which they spoke hoarsely. “Not again.” They decided to take a break from the live lecture and headed for the kitchen, lurching on some steps more than others. Mindlessly, Keiran reeled themself toward the potato chips they kept at the back of the cupboard in case of an emergency. Their tongue fought the assault of spices as they shovelled handfuls into their mouth; but, neither the crunch nor the flavor woke them from their nightmare, so they decided to lie down and conjure up a new one:

“We expect that he will have recovered enough by Thursday if all goes well. However, we also need to consider his long journey home.”

“Thursday? Isn’t 4 days a long time? I would like him home sooner.  He needs me.” I need him.

“Mx. Reyes, today is only Tuesday, we can’t keep him for four days. There’s nothing more we can do for him here.”

“Yeah, yeah. COVID and all. As if that risk even makes a difference at this point. I grew up around here, you know.”

The sky was coated in thick, black clouds when Keiran rose again (or at least they assumed, considering the lack of light outside), and the house was somehow more lifeless than before their slumber. Silence unnerved Keiran. Their father had always been so full of life and support.

All of their friends had also been spectacularly supportive, but Keiran felt no surprise when they were greeted by a lock screen devoid of interaction with the outside world, as though Keiran never mattered to anyone in the first place. Even their professor hadn’t sent anything regarding the end of class, when Keiran was likely one of a handful of remaining students after all the “attentive learners” had been dismissed. It was as if nobody cared.

Nobody cared.

Keiran watched the outside, against their better judgement, as the treeline called to them through the glass. Oily fingerprints littered the dirty glass from previous escape attempts—dust had settled atop them, as though the skin cells had designated a familiar place to return to for their eternal slumber. Keiran had dealt with the temptation for long enough. This time, they listened to the song the wild sang for them. Even when the cold wind bit at their face, caressed their bare arms, and stroked their hair, the forest warmed their core with its allure.

Blades of grass whispered as the wind picked up, mimicking the leaves several yards above them. Keiran heard them gossiping. The plants studied and discussed Keiran. Keiran hated it. Their father couldn’t protect them anymore, so, they ran, desperate to escape the mockery and insensitivity voiced at their expense. Every day was the same. Always scrutiny. Always judgement. Always disapproval. Never safe. Nobody cared.

Darkness embraced Keiran in a hug, stroking its long fingers over their body and scratching in the way mothers do when they console a crying child, only rougher. Keiran couldn’t tell if their eyes were open; in their haste, they had neglected to notice that the night was moonless. “Who are you?” Keiran’s voice sounded monotone when it echoed through the empty space, as though scripted. They didn’t recognize it. 

“Epialaes,” the stranger whispered back, using the wind to carry its words.

The sound covered Keiran in a blanket as they tried to remember the classics course they took last semester. “Your name means bad dream, or nightmare, or something, right?”

“I prefer ‘dark dream’.”

Keiran hummed, “Can I stay? You give good hugs. I needed a good hug.”

“You can stay, but only if you play my game.”

“I like games!”

“It’s called Ghost in the Graveyard.”

Moss—or what felt like moss—squished between Keiran’s toes as they shifted their weight to sit criss-cross on the ground. “Ghost in the Graveyard was my favorite game growing up. You hide first.” 

Heavy footsteps echoed in the forest as waves of sound crashed into the trunks of long-forgotten trees. When Keiran counted all the way to 20, the darkness responded with silence. Referencing their time researching, they decided that the most effective strategy, given the circumstances, would be to roll over onto their hands and knees and alternate between crawling and waving their hands in front of them. Epialaes ran around them so much that Keiran could have sworn multiple sets of feet padded on the soil, and rather felt as though they were among multiple players participating in a game of “sardines”. The shadows’ movement seemed like cheating, but Keiran hadn’t played the game in over a decade. In fact, they remembered playing with a flashlight, but that couldn’t be right. They struggled to remember their research anymore. Eventually, Keiran’s palms met something warm and moist, but they could tell that Epialaes held its breath to stay silent, just like Keiran had. “Ghost in the graveyard! But, I can’t chase you. I can’t see.”

“I know. I have your eyes.”

“That makes sense.”

The ground rose to meet Keiran’s face as their arms stopped working. Turning their face so they didn’t speak into the dirt, they said, “My turn, but you have to close your eyes so it’s fair.”

“Okay. 20.”

Keiran deemed a large tree trunk to be the best hiding spot, so they gingerly stood to begin their search as the wind carried Epialaes’ countdown around them.

“15.”

Taking a similar approach as they had during their round as the “seeker”, Keiran swept their arms in front of them while briskly walking through the night.

“10.”

One of their pant legs got caught on a thorn bush, but Keiran didn’t have enough time to find an alternate route, so they pushed through as sharp plant material bore into their flesh.

“5. I’m going to find you, Keiran.”

Keiran started running with their arms stretched out to their sides, like when they played Red Rover or pretended to be an airplane. 

“4.”

But, they didn’t hit anything.

“3.”

Instead, Keiran stood still and tried to think clearly.

“2.”

They couldn’t find any trees.

“1.”

Epialaes’ would find them immediately if it cheated and opened its eyes. So, Keiran made themself as small as possible to duck beneath the ferns and lie on their stomach. The forest floor reeked of rot, and each footstep that passed by Keiran’s face forced a new breath of it to invade their nostrils. They hid their head in their arms and fought to control their breathing. There was no point. Epiales’ fingers had already found their target and began stroking the soft skin on the bridge of Keiran’s right foot.

“Ghost in the graveyard.”

When Keiran stood, Epialaes shakily exhaled directly behind them, and it tickled the hairs on their neck. They refused to lose. With knowledge that the trees had retreated into the ground for the game, Keiran ran faster than they did the last time they played Freeze Tag (Keiran considered that variant the least fun because being caught meant standing still, and children don’t like that). 

Somehow, the footsteps behind them caught up, and the darkness managed to trip Keiran and send them tumbling down an unexpectedly steep hill. Keiran should have thanked Epialaes for helping them find a tree, but they couldn’t find the words, because their thoughts centered on a new pain emanating from their lower back. For now, they needed to focus on moving their lungs and legs. It was a daunting task, but they soon filled their chest with air. Using their arms as leverage against the ground and the tree, Keiran pushed their torso into a sitting position before their legs declared that they would not wake up. Their body protested like a child asking for five more minutes of sleep after they’re already late for school. So, Keiran gave up. The tree supported them enough that they could take a moment to relax. Not a muscle in their body tensed. Through their struggle, Epialaes merely watched. Keiran could feel its patience.

“So, can I stay?”

The leaves of the surrounding foliage all roared an impossibly deep laugh, one not meant for human ears. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Keiran chuckled along with the wilderness before taking a long moment to seriously consider their responsibilities. The forest returned a deafening silence while it waited for them, and Keiran’s brain started to create a high-pitched ringing noise to make up for it. Overcome with a need to hear noise, Keiran craned their neck at an uncomfortable angle to project into the starless sky, where the vacuum of space would carry their story until the end of time. In reality, they likely spoke to the leaves of the tree that cradled their broken body, “No, I don’t have anything to do today, it’s Saturday.”