faith elspeth {d9} FIN

 ^{F A I T H} _{E L S P E T H}

("Twenty-eight.")

My hand reached across the way to the cupboard door.

("Twenty-nine.")

It creaked open as I tugged on it, my hands creating a path through old coats.

("Thirty.")

I stepped inside, the light seeping out of the door before I slammed it shut.

Hide-and-seek always was my favourite game. I'd often play it around the house with my siblings and cousins, or, if we went to our grandparents, the children from next door. My hiding places often involved the dark: slipping into places which weren't made to be hidden in and rolling underneath strange and various objects in a home. Most of the time I'd be found almost instantly ("you're behind the curtain, silly") but there were times where I'd be left with only my own company for hours.

("Ready or not, here I come!")

There's no real winner in hide-and-seek, though. Not really. Being a true winner takes guts, the crowned rewarded with glory beyond imagination. Being a winner in hide-and-seek means that you get the gift of counting. My least favourite part. I hate the thought of winning any game, the reliability and responsibilities which plunge down unto you and although you may be the best at the time - do you stay the best afterwards?

No; you become the counter.

Which according to my book, isn't the best.

("I've found... you!")

Not me though, not this time. I'm still stuck in my wardrobe digging around in the boxes of worn out shoes and vintage dresses which smell stale. Like moth balls. One of the dresses is a pale green colour, a particular shade of mint which reminds me of a dress I wear. It's floral, cut short to just above my knee. It was a hand me down, of course, but one of the better ones. I always wear it; spring, summer, autumn, winter. I can make it timeless with my lace-up shoes and greasy hair which has been attacked by the wind countless times. 

("Where are you? Faith?")

Plodding about in the wardrobe, still. It confuses me why they don't check the obvious places first. The few times which I do count, I retain my strategic and systematic way of doing things. At first, I always check the cubby-hole underneath the stairs, then the places which weren't used in the last game. Going about it this way makes it easy for me; harder for them. That's fine by me though, I just hate counting.

It's a miracle I can fit into this closet. A beautiful, logistical miracle. A tall girl fitting into a place which looks as if it were made for a tiny child. My dainty hand pushes the door open slightly, my skeletal face peeking out to hear for footsteps and scan for any signs of movement. I sense a blur. 

I blink, but it's too late. I'm a goner.

("I see you, Faith. Game over!")

("I'm not going to count.")

I hate being the winner and I hate being the loser. I wish there was an in-between - a mythical limbo where a person can be content without feeling the shame of losing or the credit which comes with winning. A neutral place for a neutral girl or boy. I fit the bill. I don't excel in anything, I'm not special, I'm just — there. 

And the one thing I thought I was reasonably good at is a lie now, too. I couldn't last 10 minutes in this game of hide-and-seek.

Come to think of it, hide-and-seek is my favourite game because of the people I play it with. They understand the game as do I, but we understand each other. I don't have to make them suffer the slings and arrows which sit on the edge of my tongue (like I do with some). Hearing Jamie's voice above all others when seeking or counting gives a buzz of passion. Her secrets are mine, our lines colliding together to make what: art.

I love her.

("Can we play again? Just one more time, come on!")

They told me that only children play games. Once again, they try to force feed me lies whilst I'm still awake and concious. I huff whenever I hear a voice of any sort tell me that. Nobody is ever too old for games: any sort. board games, playground games, special games. People can be games too. I remember once, Jamie asked me how that could be and my response was clean and transparent. 'People are games because you can play them.' It came out bitterly, perhaps.

But what I meant was true.

A porcelain face guided by a heart of gold would be taken too quickly. The truth is what makes a person strong. But what makes a person stronger is their ways of lying. White lies, blue lies, red lies, little lies, 'dugmyselftoodeep' lies. Telling a lie gives us the power of control, it ignites the fear which makes you feel burn with life.

People are games because of lies. Lies can be swirling all around you, and before you know it: you're suffocating. The bleak, empty shape around you steals you're breath. Lies are a way of surviving and coping: but soon enough they become whispers among the anxious screams.

Lies don't help you in hide-and-seek, though. I hate counting.

("Fine. But I'm only counting to twenty.")

My lips curl into that distinctive smirk as my palms raise themselves to cover my eyes. I hear their laughs around me before they fade into a melodic chorus of 'shh'.

("Deal!")

She roars with laughter, I twinkle with pride.