The Game Room
In
the early hours of July 2nd 1961, after a long battle with
depression, Ernest Hemingway positioned his favourite double barrel shotgun to
his mouth and pulled the trigger. His aim was flawless.Now he finds himself having a conversation with William
Shakespeare about women, death and African game hunting.
“It’s not really so painful.” He said.
“No?”
He looked around. The barrel of the shotgun was still
smoking. A splatter of blood covered the wall of his basement storeroom. A
piece of what looked like his skull had landed almost too perfectly on a
stuffed and mounted squirrel he had kept from his first hunting trip as a young
boy.
William sat down on a wicker chair that had been put down
there by Ernest three months ago. “I propose you clean up before Mary returns home.”
“Why? Because between the death of her husband and a
God-awful stain she’s more likely to fuss over the stain?”
William stared right through Ernest.
Ernest understood. “It still didn’t hurt.”
“When will she get home?”
“What the hell does it matter?” Ernest snapped back, “It’s
not like it can be undone.” He’d moved over to the bloody wall, looking at the thick
red splatter. It was not unlike a Rorschach Test he’d been shown only months
earlier.
William lent back in the chair, his fingers stroking through
the little beard on his chin. “What do you expect her to do now? How can she
possibly go on living without her husband to provide for her?”
“She survived before she met me. She’ll survive after.”
“Is it enough to just survive?” William quizzed, “How about
to live?”
“It’s funny that you’re here right now.” Ernest broke his staring
match with the blood.
“Were you expecting someone else?”
“Maybe,” Ernest replied, “Maybe someone from my past.”
“A girl?”
Ernest smiled nostalgically.
“Who are you thinking of?” William continued.
“Mary. And the rest.”
“There was only ever Anne for me.”
“What? In your entire life?”
William nodded. “It’s the way it was back then.”
Ernest lumbered over to William and took a seat opposite.
“You talk differently than I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Lots of fancy words. Like your plays, you know?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, my friend. This is how I talk.”
Ernest shrugged. “It’s ok. No big deal.”
The silence of the conversation echoed through the basement
as both men sat opposite each other, trying to avoid each other’s gaze. This
was the first time Ernest had actually taken any time to just sit back and
relax in his basement. He never came down here anymore, not even to look at his
old collection of game he had mounted on the walls. A glassy eyed zebra looked
forever into space. That was easy game; big, brooding, there we so many of them
on the plain. The warthog was much more difficult; it disappeared into shrubs
and long grass, it was a real hunt.
“You ever go hunting?” Ernest asked.
William looked up, as if he had been in a dream. “No. I was
never much of an outdoorsman.”
Ernest grunted, “Figures. No women, no hunting. What did you
do?”
“I spent most of my time writing; acting when I needed to. A
lot was spent away from my family.”
“Are you telling me you spent time away from your wife, and
you never went astray? Not once? Not ever?”
“I can honestly
say I never cheated on her with another woman.”
“You crazy son of a bitch. How’d you do it?”
“When you love someone enough, you do anything not to hurt
them.”
“But women,” Ernest said, “Jesus, they’re so God-damned
intoxicating. They change you, shape you. You’re going with one, and some time
down the track you think: what the hell has happened to me? I was never like
this. And so you take a stand, you find another woman to change you back. And
so it goes on.”
“Don’t you see though? That’s what’s great about it all.
Both of you grow together, creating a new life form. That’s intoxicating.”
“Why would I want to change? I like me.”
William looked over at the wall, “Really?”
Ernest slowly turned around to look at the wall. The blood
had slowly made its way towards the floor. It no longer resembled a familiar
Rorschach Test, but a violent evolving stain. “Why are you here?”
“I don’t know. I’m not in control.”
“Well I’m sure as hell not either!”
“But you want to be, don’t you? That’s why you put the gun
in your mouth.”
“Does that sound like the action of a man in control?”
“Entirely. How much more control do you want than that over
your very life?”
“It’s not about that.”
“Then what is it about?” William looked over at the game
trophies. There they were. The mounted heads of animals Ernest had hunted and
killed, all in the name of control and power. Now reduced to collecting dust in
an old man’s basement, reminders of ancient conquests of the past. Each one had
a story behind it, a chase, a hunt. And it always ended the same way: he was
the winner.
“Looks like I finally found a beast worth hunting.”
William let out a little smile, enjoying the moment of
irony.
“But you never shoot the head from such close range.” Ernest
continued, “Ruins the head mount. The grand trophy. What have you got left
without the head? Just a bag of useless blood and guts.”
“Is that how you see yourself now?”
“I don’t know how I see myself now. Hell, I don’t even know
what’s going on. One minute I’ve got a loaded shotgun in my mouth, the next I’m
here talking to you. I think one of us owes the other an explanation.”
The two men locked eyes again. Neither of them willing to give up an inch.
Ernest broke the battle. “What do you know about what’s
going on?”
“What makes you think I’ve any idea about this whole mess?”
“I just supposed you’d done this before.”
“It’s new to me.” William sat back in his chair, fingers
rhythmically tapping the arm rests. “Let’s talk about your writing.”
“Let’s not.”
“Why?”
“Because writing shouldn’t be talked about. That’s why they
call it writing.”
“So what would you like to do?”
“I don’t know.” He thought for a moment. “You think this is
it?”
William looked around the musty old basement. “This? No. Not
even close.”
“Good. I’d be disappointed if it was; all that praying just
to end up in your own damn basement.”
William stood
up and walked over to the row of mounted animal heads on the wall. He walked
past each one, intricately inspecting all the details of the long deceased
trophies. There was something about them; something uncanny. They were real,
but they had a sense of mockery about them. As if such noble creatures couldn’t
possibly be destined to hang on wall, a shadow of their former selves, the
pride and grace they once had gone with the pull of a trigger.
“Quite a collection, isn’t it?” Ernest said proudly.
“Indeed. All yours?”
“Of course. You keep what you hunt. It’s your trophy.”
“It looks like you’ve done quite well for yourself.”
Ernest chuckled, “These ones are my discards. Small fry. I
keep the big ones on display, like any normal person would do of their prized
trophies.”
“And what does Mary say to having a house full of dead
animals?”
“It’s my house.”
“Of course. But she does stay here, doesn’t she?”
“It’s my house. If she doesn’t like it, there are plenty of
others around she can have.”
“That’s hardly fair.” William shifted uncomfortably in his
chair. “She contributes to the household; surely she should get some say.”
“She does. It’s totally up to her if she stays here or not.
She has total freedom.”
“Do you love her?”
“What kind of bloody stupid question is that? Of course I
do. I’ve loved her since the day we met. It’s this house I can’t stand. The
walls. The roof. The lack of space. I was never happier than out on safari. Or
on the water. When there’s an
infinite space of pure nature between you and your problems...that’s
freedom...the breeding ground of creativity. It’s paradise.”
“Then why not go back?”
“It’s a bit late now.”
“I meant before. Before this.”
“I don’t know.
I’m too old. Too tired. Why even bother with it anymore? You just end up at the
same destination, doesn’t matter where you start. You can’t outrun him, you
can’t outsmart him, you can’t even outthink him. This...hunter...will get you.
He hunts you like nothing else. He knows your every move. He’s inside your
mind, waiting for that moment of weakness...the rustling in the bushes...the
snap of a twig under hoof. Once he has you in his sight, what can you do? He
never misses. And he always aims for the head.”
Ernest slouched deep into his chair, hands feebly dangling
by his side. His eyes moved to William, now a fuzzy dark shape occupying the
space in the chair. He looked around the room; it wasn’t the same as before. It
was dark and dirty. Not the way he remembered it. His stuffed game trophies
were old and rotting, hair falling out, moth eaten and neglected. Stuffing was
extruding from the neck of an old gazelle. Layers upon layers of dust covered
an ancient squirrel. Then he saw the worst site of all. His own body. Lying,
lifeless. He wanted to cry, but he felt nothing. ‘Was this it?’ he thought.
Still he felt nothing. Even with his own dead body lying just feet from him he
couldn’t conjure up one simple emotion. Before he hated the drowning effect of
emotions, now he longed for just one. “William!” he shouted as he turned
around. But there was nothing. He was alone.
Darkness clouded the room. The mounted trophies became
veiled by this dense mist that vented in from every direction. Even as the
darkness consumed him entirely, he felt nothing.
END
So what do you think? I haven't edited it (I lost the original copy with the teacher's notes scrawled across it). But I know I got a Distinction for it.
