You’re winning.
You somehow always end up on top, in that top right corner. The little trinket that is your board piece is slowly but surely making its way to that corner. You dodge the snakes, climb the ladders. Others follow suit but luck is always on your side.
It’s blissful. Oh so fucking blissful.
Today you’re only playing against her. She coughs sporadically but you’re used to it. After the game, you tell yourself, you’ll ask how she’s doing. She’s actually ahead of you this time, and considerably so. Four rows up. You hide your scowl because, by god, you’ll find a way to that corner.
The incandescent light enlarges the kitchen, bouncing off those butterscotch walls. Eternally cozy, this place where all your board battles happen, where all your victories shake the table and the very foundations of the city.
Today, she’s coughing more and more.
It annoys you but you don’t say much. She has just returned from a break. “Just some tests,” is what your papá tells you, your sister, your brother. Besides, you’ve got to find a way to that corner of the board.
She cups the dice in her olive-colored hands. She once used to shake them vigorously, as if a beating heart were within. Today she just does a performative shake and when the dice roll, the number lands her on a snake that takes her down nearly three rows - enough to put you ahead. If you’re lucky on this turn.
“Sí!”, you shriek. You just can’t help yourself. She looks at you while you giddily grab the dice. Even though your focus is on the two peppered salt cubes in your hands you can feel her smile from across the table. Her eyes almost twinkle but they’re interrupted by a sonorous cough.
As soon as you lift your hands of your board piece, your father walks timidly into the kitchen. He knows he’s interrupting an important affair.
“———,” he says. “Your mother has to leave for a few hours. We have to take her for some other tests and her appointment is coming up.”
No, no. No. This game isn’t over yet. You feel the hot blood coursing to your cheeks. I’m so close. When you ask for five more minutes, your father shakes his head. He’s not scolding you but he isn’t his usual playful self either.
“I’m afraid we can’t wait - I’m going to go with her now. Despídete de tu mamá - kiss her goodbye.”
No. You want to play, you want to finish this game first.
“———,” she says. “We can play when I’m back. But for now I have to go to - “
But the blood has saturated your ears and the tiny veins in your temples pulsate wildly.
You bang your fists on the table before you storm off upstairs. You’re boiling and you think of the only place where you can hide: under the colorful wooden frame that upholds your bed.
It takes a few seconds before your bated breaths subside before you realize he’s calling you from downstairs.
“———, please come down, mijo. Just come for a quick minute.”
No! You don’t bother to say it anymore and you feel the steam rising from the curves of your ears. You were so close to winning, so, so close.
There is silence downstairs.
As you hold your breath to listen more attentively, you hear your mother’s footsteps lumbering slowly toward what you deduce is the front door. Some whisperings, some words being muttered. When the door opens, the life of the city street creeps into your house.
Even then you can just distinguish the sounds of lips embracing cheeks.
“———, please, come down.”
The heat returns. No way.
Your siblings’ footsteps. You can’t tell where they’re going, the blood in your ear deafens you. Seconds stretch into minutes. Minutes into heartbeats.
The door closes and quietness returns to your home. Your siblings walk in different directions - she goes to the common room; he goes to the bathroom.
You’ve been holding your breath this entire time. When the air finally leaves your lungs, you can see it move the dust in front of you. It’s quiet now. No one calls out anymore. You wait longer just in case they’re baiting you to come out. No one does.
You make your way down the steps ever so slowly but there is nothing to disturb. Your sister is reading; your brother is doing god knows what.
When you peek into the kitchen the board is still there as you left it, a bit ajar after your fists caused a slight tremor on the table. There’s a piece of paper by your mother’s piece, three rows below her wooden piece, near the bottom third of the board. You discern her beautiful cursive immediately.
At her funeral three days later, all the blood that was once in your temples, in your ears, in your mouth is gone. It’s slithered down, all the way down. It’s seeped through the soles of your shoes. The words have never left you.