One Dash Zero

Richard Wang

Ms. Tompkins

World Lit H

23 April 2015

One Dash Zero

“Checkmate, good game, please sign my scoresheet.”

Garry slapped his hand with the piece in it vigorously onto the board. Alexander felt blood rush into his face, the hairs on his neck standing on end like a convoy of ants raised against an intruder. Garry raised his hand for a handshake, which Alexander shook reluctantly.

“You made your mistake on the tenth move, after that I believe I was completely winning,” puffed Garry.

That was an arrogant gesture. Not only did he try to point out the inaccuracies that his opponent made, but he also boasted pretentiously about his own play. Alexander clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white, his face felt hot as it shifted into a darker hue of red.

The tournament hall was quiet; you could hear a man swallow from a distance of 20 meters away. However, Alexander was howling and convulsing inside, tearing at himself until his innards felt as if they contained an acrid liquid. His play had been flawless up until this game, and he had high hopes of performing exceptionally in the tournament. Alexander had to give some credit to his opponent for playing well, but Garry’s behavior was simply intolerable.

But Alexander had a sinister idea.

“I will write down the score for us.”, Alexander lifted his own pencil.

“Sure, that’s fine.” waved away Garry.

Alexander motioned to the official scoresheets, pencil in hand and with his entire body twitching. His sporadic steps clattered on the clean linoleum floor. Alexander’s eyes burned like caustic fumes. He felt as if Garry was a phantom that was drifting behind him, his breath chilling the hairs on the back of his neck. It was as if Garry was babbling about into his ear right behind him.

“You made your mistake on the tenth move”

Garry’s words resounded in Alexander’s mind. His tenth move was not the decisive mistake.

“I was completely winning…” , Garry’s taunt reverberated in his ear.

Alexander winced, his teeth grinded against each other. Alexander had spent hours on preparation for this tournament. He had buried himself underneath strata of books, spent hours staring at a board until his eyes became teary, and yet Garry proved to be the better player. It was one thing to be proven inferior, but it was another for the insolent brat to gloat it in front of his face. Alexander looked at board 11, Garry was staring at the pieces as he reviewed the game and touching the pieces lackadaisically with an overzealous finger. Alexander grinned maliciously, his trap had been set.

In chess tournaments, a win for white is represented as 1-0, while a win for black is the opposite. Alexander loved strolling gallantly to the official scoresheet, like a valiant knight sauntering to the throne of the king. He would raise his pen and inscribe a one dash zero, as if he were carving a message into stone. Alexander loved to be immersed in the hunt; he loved being the lion: bristling mane, curved fangs, and dark, mystifying eyes that glinted with an insatiable appetite to kill.

But today Garry was the lion, and Alexander hated the feeling of being watched, preyed upon, and looked down upon. However, there was one thing that he could do to upset Garry the most.

Alexander lifted his pencil to the game result named: Garry-Alexander. Zero dash one: a win for Alexander, now if only his hand would write that result. The hand that held the pencil trembled like a feeble mouse. He pressed the tip of the pencil onto the crisp piece of paper, as if he were pressing a knife to Garry’s neck. One small cut, one swift and simple incision could end Garry. But why was it so difficult to do? The hand that held the pencil began to jerk violently. Alexander felt his own throat tie itself into knots; tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter.

The hand with the pencil dropped lifelessly to his side, it was something that Alexander could not bring himself to do. Alexander was a not a fox. It was one thing to behave vaingloriously as Garry had done, but it was sacrilegious to disobey the discipline of war.  Alexander was a young man, a modern knight. He simply could not succumb to unchivalrous acts. Garry, however, was merely a child, a 10 year old. He had much to learn.

One dash zero, scribbled Alexander. And then he sauntered away, his footsteps clattering on the ground with a measured, methodical, cadence.