The boy never lost. He’d won all the games he’d played, and all the bets he’d placed. In death, he was a winner. He was a king.
The first few days were hard, he wouldn't deny it. It was nothingness. And for a young kid such as him, that was the worst thing in the world. He wanted someone, anyone.
(Well, not them. They were smoke in his lungs, and fire across his skin.)
But then, there was a person. They were ghostly, and dull, but they were there. The boy asked them what they were doing there.
“I'm on my way to the underworld,” they had said.
And then they were gone. But still, the boy knew more than he did before. He was dead. But he was not gone yet, he wouldn't let himself fade away. This place, it was his. He wouldn’t lose his home. (Not again.)
But something still didn’t feel right.
So, he constructed a house. And when the next person came around, he offered her a place to stay. He asked for stories, for company, to play a rousing game of . . . anything. He'd take anything.
But then they left again. And the boy was alone.
So he changed the house. He built it bigger and bigger, until it was a palace of shadowy brick and towering columns. And in the middle of the hall, sat a table.
When the next person came around, he invited them to a game. It started out with chess, and with each new person he tried a different game, until one man introduced him to poker.
And for the first time in his life, he excelled at it. He took to it like fire to a . . . (like fire to clothes, like flames to skin.) It didn't take long before money was introduced to the game. The boy had no use for it, in this void of his own creation. Soon enough, he was rich.
But the traveling souls had no money either. In debt, they kept playing. They stayed for hours, weeks, months.
Years.
The void expanded from a palace, to a town, to a city. It was bleak and crowded and desolate, because everyone had too much debt and no way to pay it off. For the first time in . . . (how long had it been even? In forever? The last time he brought a crowd together, they were . . . they smelled like smoke and it burned and he cried and screamed and — ) for the first time in forever there were people.
And he was a king. He won.
Still, that wasn't enough for him. People kept coming and never leaving. The city grew alive, inhaling misery and exhaling cigarette smoke. The boy didn't notice though. He stayed inside, where the firelight was warm ( — hot, burning, violent. It hurt and it hurt and — ) and the carpets were soft. He'd never felt something this soft in his life.
That day was no different. Another man came to visit him, searching for another soul lost in his maze of a city. This wasn't unusual. So, the boy invited him to a game. Fitz was his name. Fitz was smart. He challenged the boy to a coin toss. The boy couldn't rig a coin toss, although he didn't normally rig his games. He just liked having it as an option.
But he was good at relying on chance. Chance hadn't done him any wrong. (It was people that had done him wrong. He wondered if any of those people were stuck in his city. Then again, he would've remembered their faces.)
And lady luck hadn't failed him again. He won. He always won. And now, the man was trapped. Another soul, another friend to play games with.
But then, Fitz was crying. For his freedom, for his fiancé. For mercy. (The boy wished he had someone to cry for him like that. No one cared about him. But look at him now. He was a King.)
The sobbing was too much like his own. It was full of an emotion he never liked to feel. Then, the boy started crying too. But instead of tears, flames ran down his cheeks. (They made him into this. They lit the fire and tended to the flames.)
Fitz held the boy until he stopped crying. Because he wasn't a king. He was a child, and it hurt to see a child like that. (The boy had never been held like that before.)
The boy brought Fitz's fiancé back. He knew where everyone was, since, after all, the city was like an extension of himself. The buildings were hands with which the boy played with his toys. And he cried again, because he did this. All of this. He saw the smoke through his window and did nothing. He heard the cries that were so much like his own and sat back, with his soft rugs and burning fires. (Maybe he was as bad as they said he was.)
Fitz brought love down to the shadowy palace. Not just for his fiancé. But for the boy who wasn't really a king. He was just a boy. A sad, sad boy.
No, that wasn't it either. He used to have a name, though he hadn't used it in a long time. But it was his. Izi. (And Izi couldn't believe what the boy, the king, had done.)
The first few days were hard, he wouldn't deny it. It was nothingness. And for a young kid such as him, that was the worst thing in the world. He wanted someone, anyone.
(Well, not them. They were smoke in his lungs, and fire across his skin.)
But then, there was a person. They were ghostly, and dull, but they were there. The boy asked them what they were doing there.
“I'm on my way to the underworld,” they had said.
And then they were gone. But still, the boy knew more than he did before. He was dead. But he was not gone yet, he wouldn't let himself fade away. This place, it was his. He wouldn’t lose his home. (Not again.)
But something still didn’t feel right.
So, he constructed a house. And when the next person came around, he offered her a place to stay. He asked for stories, for company, to play a rousing game of . . . anything. He'd take anything.
But then they left again. And the boy was alone.
So he changed the house. He built it bigger and bigger, until it was a palace of shadowy brick and towering columns. And in the middle of the hall, sat a table.
When the next person came around, he invited them to a game. It started out with chess, and with each new person he tried a different game, until one man introduced him to poker.
And for the first time in his life, he excelled at it. He took to it like fire to a . . . (like fire to clothes, like flames to skin.) It didn't take long before money was introduced to the game. The boy had no use for it, in this void of his own creation. Soon enough, he was rich.
But the traveling souls had no money either. In debt, they kept playing. They stayed for hours, weeks, months.
Years.
The void expanded from a palace, to a town, to a city. It was bleak and crowded and desolate, because everyone had too much debt and no way to pay it off. For the first time in . . . (how long had it been even? In forever? The last time he brought a crowd together, they were . . . they smelled like smoke and it burned and he cried and screamed and — ) for the first time in forever there were people.
And he was a king. He won.
Still, that wasn't enough for him. People kept coming and never leaving. The city grew alive, inhaling misery and exhaling cigarette smoke. The boy didn't notice though. He stayed inside, where the firelight was warm ( — hot, burning, violent. It hurt and it hurt and — ) and the carpets were soft. He'd never felt something this soft in his life.
That day was no different. Another man came to visit him, searching for another soul lost in his maze of a city. This wasn't unusual. So, the boy invited him to a game. Fitz was his name. Fitz was smart. He challenged the boy to a coin toss. The boy couldn't rig a coin toss, although he didn't normally rig his games. He just liked having it as an option.
But he was good at relying on chance. Chance hadn't done him any wrong. (It was people that had done him wrong. He wondered if any of those people were stuck in his city. Then again, he would've remembered their faces.)
And lady luck hadn't failed him again. He won. He always won. And now, the man was trapped. Another soul, another friend to play games with.
But then, Fitz was crying. For his freedom, for his fiancé. For mercy. (The boy wished he had someone to cry for him like that. No one cared about him. But look at him now. He was a King.)
The sobbing was too much like his own. It was full of an emotion he never liked to feel. Then, the boy started crying too. But instead of tears, flames ran down his cheeks. (They made him into this. They lit the fire and tended to the flames.)
Fitz held the boy until he stopped crying. Because he wasn't a king. He was a child, and it hurt to see a child like that. (The boy had never been held like that before.)
The boy brought Fitz's fiancé back. He knew where everyone was, since, after all, the city was like an extension of himself. The buildings were hands with which the boy played with his toys. And he cried again, because he did this. All of this. He saw the smoke through his window and did nothing. He heard the cries that were so much like his own and sat back, with his soft rugs and burning fires. (Maybe he was as bad as they said he was.)
Fitz brought love down to the shadowy palace. Not just for his fiancé. But for the boy who wasn't really a king. He was just a boy. A sad, sad boy.
No, that wasn't it either. He used to have a name, though he hadn't used it in a long time. But it was his. Izi. (And Izi couldn't believe what the boy, the king, had done.)