5

Life is a cruel game. It waits for no one. It takes from all. It favours some, overlooks some, and annihilates the rest. But like any game, there are winners, and there are losers. It isn't about the hand you're dealt, it's about how you play those cards.

I peer past the widely flung open screen door leading to Finnley Finch's bug-ridden abode. From the moment he'd lain eyes on me back in ninth grade, Finn had stapled a new face to his elusive drug band. Day one at his school had left an afflicted reputation nailed to my back.

"Aye, Tilley." Finn staggers into view, a freshly retrieved six-pack clutched in one hand, an uncapped beer in the other. "Long time, no see."

I've always considered Finn to be one of the winners in the game of life. From nothing he created a name for himself, despite those he left bereft in his wake.

"Want a beer?" Finn offers, throwing his head to one side in an attempt to clear the wiry orange hair drooping across one pale cheek.

"You got weed?" I ask him rather than acknowledging any of his prior words.

A crooked grin parts his sparsely freckled features. "How much you want?"

I've never truly forgiven him for harnessing me in order to market his business. I will never forget the way he exploited my body for anyone willing to pay. To Finn, I was a instrument played for his enterprise. Nothing more.

"I've got a twenty," i weakly tell him, digging the plastic note up from the shallow pocket of my track pants.

The corners of Finn's lips stretch to his bloodshot, pale green eyes. "Keep your money," he chuckles quietly, liquid dribbling down the side of his beer, coating his fingers as he gestures down the hall. "Let's go." My stomach twists, only inflaming the disgust for Finn dwelling inside me. How I wish I could blame him for all that went down in high school.

The scent of marijuana is thickly embedded into the walls and the furniture of Finn's house. His corrupt earnings attained via his narcotics operation had put a roof, laden with water damage but a roof nonetheless, above his head. It funds his deleterious alcohol consumption, and fills his fridge with whatever insalubrious food he ingests. His methods may not be riddled with integrity, but he's obtained everything he's ever wanted for.

"Hey Tilley," Gray, Finn's right hand man and acclaimed degenerate, addresses me.

Several others slouched across the yellowing white leather of the stained sofa mutter their greetings after Gray's.

"Kieran!" I clamp my back teeth tightly together at the voice to my left. "You're still so skinny? Someone get this bitch some food," Arlo bleats out before breaking into an uncharitable chortle. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'd still fuck you."

At that, my fist, as if acting with a mind of its own, centres itself in the middle of his acne scarred face. Arlo hadn't appreciated my attempts to trivialise our single month relationship that had purely been an ephemeral catalyst to spur the end of high school along.

Arlo's hiss of pain at the impact merely excites the enmity towards him, and Finn and his posse that brims at the tips of my fingers. They had profited off my ignorance, and aspirated the last drops of innocence clinging to my thirteen year old mind. The other kids my age were just graduating primary school, still existing with their heads in the clouds. Three grades above them, I was already fighting to make it out of the world unscathed. My roughly chewed nails dig into my palm as I once again send a punch hurtling towards the pinched bridge of Arlo's nose.

My blow doesn't land, however. Rough fingers seize my wrist, terminating the strike only centimetres from touching down between Arlo's mildly unimpressive blue eyes. His dark curls inch over his forehead as he hunches, nose cradled in his hands and blood oozing through the crevices between his fingers.

"Who knew the anorexic little fuck could punch so damn hard?" Arlo scowls at me, his feet shuffling several tiles back.

No longer bothering to conceal the anger burning inside me, I attempt to launch myself at Arlo. But the grip holding my wrist captive doesn't relent. Instead, a second arm wraps around my waist, spinning my body around so that my back is to Arlo.

Jesse's midnight blue eyes hold no intensity as they lock onto mine. "Let me go," I growl at the boy detaining me, throwing my unconfined fist into his solid chest.

Jesse doesn't flinch. Against me, his body feels as rigid as a brick wall. Try as I might, I cannot tear my eyes from his. In his hold, my muscles seem to weaken, and for a very brief moment, the fury readying itself to spit like fire from my mouth dissipates. Wordlessly, Jesse drops the arm compressing the two of us together. Still holding my wrist, he leads me back down the hall through which I'd arrived, and past the door that never shuts.

I shake my wrist free of his now relaxed hold, pinning him with a glare. "What the fuck?"

Jesse runs one hand through the upswept tawny tresses messily sprawled upon his head. His other hand slips into the back pocket of his dark denim jeans, extracting a thoroughly wrinkled ziplock bag and tossing it towards me. "I assume you came for these," he stipulates, his tone faintly detached, and his expression reserved.

"How much do I owe you?" I murmur, peering through the transparent packet. It comprises several rolled joints accompanied by a handful of ordinary cigarettes.

"Nothin'," Jesse answers, allowing the door frame to support his lofty build. My lips part as i raise my eyes back to his bronzed face, anguish settling across my chest. "And no, I'm not going to make you sleep with me," he declines my unasked question, briefly alleviating the weight against my shoulders.

"Okay," I breathe out in response, my stare sliding back to the frazzled doormat that reads 'Fuck Off' in roguish bold letters. Jesse's sneakers scrape the chipping grout spilling out from in between tiles as he turns to retreat back into the house full of day drunks. "Wait, Jesse." The words spill from my lips before my brain can license them. "I'm sorry."

Jesse's head twists in my direction, one dark eyebrow cocked. "Didn't know those words were in your vocabulary." His eyes scan mine, as if awaiting an undue reaction. But I simply stare back at him, unspeaking. Jesse averts his gaze from mine, letting his shoulders drop. "Doesn't matter. Could never make you happy, as you said."

Digging my nails into the heels of my palms, I swallow hard. Quick to anger has always been my disposition; a fact of which Jesse is fully aware. Jesse and the others, for that matter. "That isn't what I said, Jesse," I tell him levelly, rather than spewing out the piqued response that had balanced on the tip of my tongue moments before.

Jesse's eyes hit the floor. "It's what you meant."

My eyes snap behind him as footsteps rumble against the floor. "Jesse, are you still talking to that bitch?"

Jesse's gaze hardens at the sound of Arlo's almost unintelligible words. "Wanna drive somewhere?"

My gaze skirts the few cars scattered across the arid dirt that had once been a weed-ridden front lawn. "Which one's yours?"

+++

"Why are you still living with Finn?" I question, resting my fingertips on the chain link fence separating the cliff edge from the cracked concrete path on which we stand.

What few clouds invade the blue canvas above us are imperceptible to the naked eye. The sun beams in the spotlight, it's rays glinting like a picturesque painting hung in a gallery. Its warmth cloaks each object in its direct path like a second skin, animate and inanimate alike.

The forsaken fence dips slightly as Jesse rests his forearms on its top rail. "Mum pissed off. Jimmy kicked me out."

I let a soft sigh escape my lips. "Fucking Jimmy." Jesse remains silent, eyes trained on the sunlight stained cliff top.

"Come on," I urge gently, pressing my palms against the railing and hoisting myself into the air.

"What are you doing?" Jesse demands abruptly as I swing both my legs over the ridge of the fence.

I shoot him a sharp glance. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

Jesse sucks in a breath, groaning loudly as I drop onto the notched rocks below me. "You're fucking crazy."

"The cops won't come for at least half an hour," I counter, tilting my head in the direction of the sun. It's blinding body has sunken almost halfway to the horizon, but its rays still beat against my shoulders with simmering intensity.

"And when they do, we'll be admitted to the psych ward," Jesse stresses.

I roll my eyes. "Just get over here."

The cliff has been on a relaxed suicide watch for almost a year which essentially means that if a resident of the vicinity spots a passer-by on the wrong side of the fence, they are obligated to call the police. Why any place infamous for successful suicides wouldn't be monitored at the very least as intemperately as a shopping centre is beyond me. I guess that the reality of the situation is that we've established a society more concerned about shoplifting than suicide.

I move towards the edge of the cliff, lowering myself to the rock beneath me and allowing my legs to dangle over the brink. Some sixty metres below, foamy waves crash against the cliff wall, thrashing as if trying to escape the vast body of water comprising the Tasman Sea.

"If you jump," Jesse's words slice through the wind. "I swear to god, I will kill you." I stretch my palms out behind me, leaning backwards as Jesse tentatively assumes a place beside me, clutching his knees to his chest. "Does anything scare you?"

I don't reply, freeing one hand from supporting my body weight so that I can retrieve a cigarette from the pocket of my tracksuit pants. I place it in between my lips before slipping my lighter from the other lint filled pocket. Straightening my back, I lean forwards, my right hand shielding the flame from the mild breeze whilst my left thumb flicks over the ignition.

"Want a smoke?" I say to Jesse, leaning back on one hand as the other balances the cigarette between my first and second finger.

Jesse nods. Clutching the cigarette between my teeth, I slip a second one to Jesse, following it with the lighter. "Why are you so resentful towards me?" I question faintly, pulling my feet back onto the surface of the cliff.

Jesse glances side-long at me, a vacant stare gracing his countenance. "Wouldn't you be too?"

I rest my chin on one knee, letting my gaze stray to the drop-off. "I would've gotten over it by now."

"Yeah?" Jesse quietly demands, both his eyebrows climbing several centimetres up his forehead. "So, if you told me that you loved me, and then I went and slept with the next girl I saw, you'd be okay with it?"

"Jess," I murmur, casting a vacillating stare on him. "You didn't love me."

Jesse releases an almost inaudible scoff. "You're impossible."

I bring my cigarette to my lips, turning my head back to face the bitter sun. The immense ball of fiery gas is the true victor of all life. In moments it can obliterate darkness, silencing the evil that emerges in the night. The wind traps the smoke exhaled from my mouth in its path, towing it upwards. It's some consolation that each intake of smoke will likely reduce the time I will have to spend instilling oxygen into my lungs and subsequently expelling carbon dioxide from my lips.

"Do you want to know why I chose Arlo?"

Jesse tilts his head to one side. "I really would."

"He never gave a shit about me," I state flatly. "He wanted me for sex and to look good in front of everyone else."

"Tills, I know you think you're justifying yourself," Jesse begins, flicking the middle of his cigarette with his thumb. "But you make zero fucking sense."

I move so that my shoulders bend over the cliff edge, my back slouching. "Can't fuck up something that means nothing."

"Hey!"

Jesse's gaze is hastily whisked behind him by the unfamiliar voice. "Fuck," he hisses through his teeth, scrambling to his feet.

I simply pull my cigarette from my lips, resting my hand on my thigh. Legalities often seem more like formalities, and as such, don't tend to concern me. There are so many loopholes to be found, and even more immoral law enforcement personnel to befriend; sometimes I feel that I can circumvent any penalties if I play my cards right.

"The fuck you kids doing?" The guttural voice comes at us again.

Jesse's cigarette hurtles its way over the edge of the cliff at his hand before he whips around to face the newcomer. "Hey Cliff," i pipe up before Jesse has a chance to formulate justification as to our presence on the prohibited side of the fence.

"You reckon I should jump today?"

Jesse sends a glare surging in my direction. "Tilley!"

"Calling the cops, matchstick!" the grey-skinned, sunken-eyed man hollers towards me.

"The fuck is he?" Jesse implores, distress beginning to delve into the fear lacing his tone.

I blow the smoke through pursed lips. "That's Clifford the cliff guy."

"The cliff guy?" Jesse repeats, his tone growing more strained by the second.

I don't dignify his reiteration of my statement with a response, instead allowing my eyes to flicker shut as the crashing of the waves washes through my eardrums. Cliff blows one of his many limited fuses each time I turn up here.

"Say 'hi' for me!" I call back to Cliff who undoubtedly has his phone pressed to his saggy ear, as he does each time with unfailing regularity.

Cliff's phone loudly clicks shut. "They'll arrest you this time, matchstick!"

"Matchstick?" Jesse queries, the urgency in his tone still at its peak.

I tap the middle of my cigarette, shrugging. "I'm skinny."

"Dude, you realise he's called the fucking cops?"

"Jesse," I begin, launching my tapering cigarette over the edge of the cliff. "Shut the fuck up."

Jesse's eyes widen, but the glare swept across his face is still evident. "Me?" he demands, his tone climbing a pitch higher. "We're about to have the cops at our asses!"

"Jesse," I say again, not bothering to stifle the patronising edge fringing my tone. "Do you really think I'd get you arrested?"

A tight scowl tucks into his piercing features as he resumes his place beside me on the sun thawed rocks. "I never fucking know with you," he mumbles underneath his breath.

I puff out my cheeks as I exhale, lowering my back to the ground and folding my hands behind my head. "Just sit tight and enjoy the sound of sirens racing towards us."

Jesse shakes his head slowly. "You're fucking crazy."

Sanity has never been my strong suit. Although, insane may be the wrong concept. Extortionate, maybe. Unconventional, definitely. People don't tend to stray from what is familiar. I, conversely, have not lived a coherent life comprised by uniformity or constants. Nothing has been invariable. And while I am aware that I am not the only person trapped in a dynamic whirlwind of reality, it all amounts to how I've played my hand. Maybe I've turned myself insane. Maybe I'm losing this game.

I once again allow my eyes to flicker shut, blocking the sound of Cliff's nasally voice from my head, and barring the apprehension radiating off Jesse from my conscience.

The police dispatched to every call placed by Cliff emerge twenty minutes following the report each time without fail. The blue and red flashing lights cease before the car engine does.

"You brought a friend, aye, Tills?" Officer Lane greets me, slamming the door shut behind him.

Turning my back to the drop off, I stare up at the blue and black clad officer, his hefty belt clinking with each step.

"Pinky promise he isn't suicidal," I assure the cop, who in return shoots me a knowing grin.

To Cliff he asks, "you placed the call, sir?"

Cliff wipes the droplet of drool from the corner of his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "I did!" he exclaims, his words jerking from his lips like a bucking horse. Adjusting the thickly framed glasses slipping to the end of his nose, he trains a glare on both Jesse and I. "Little bastard jumped the darn fence again!"

Lane fabricates a disappointed sigh, reaching up to run a hand over the closely shaved tan coloured hair that blends in with his skin. "You can't discipline these kids enough, can ya?"

Cliff huffs in response. "I fuckin' tell her," he caws. "Every fuckin' time."

"Alright, alright," Lane hushes the elderly man, the corners of his thin lips twitching upwards ever so slightly. "I'll take it from here. You have a lovely night, sir."

Cliff wrings his hand in what I can only assume is a goodbye gesture, renouncing me with one last parting glower brimming with deeply embedded spite.

"Man, I hate that guy," Lane breathes out the minute Cliff begins to fade into the leafless shrubs bordering the walkway. The only colour splashing the desolate area is attributed to the weeds peeking through the fissures in the concrete. But as soon as the uninvited plants catch a glimpse of scorching sun, their heads turn to the ground, and the green starts to tarnish.

I hum in agreement, my eyes wondering past Lane, scanning the vicinity for the officer who typically accompanies him. "No Benson today?"

"Nope," Lane declines, hooking his fingers through the holes dotted throughout the fence. "Out sick."

"Shame," I say, pressing my lips into a single line momentarily. "You gonna make us come back there, or what?"

"Nah." Lane gives a short shake of his head, placing both hands on the fence rail and using the splintering guard as a means of supporting his entire body. I light a fresh cigarette, watching as Lane drops to the rocks below. "Give me a light?"

I chuck my lighter towards Lane before twisting back so that the sunlight embraces my front. Sure, this heat instigates fires, but each time it squanders into the cooler months, I find myself longing for nothing more than the forty degree days that curse those who enjoy winter.

Lane plops down beside me, dropping the lighter into my lap. "How you doing, Tills?"

I squint at the lanky officer as he squirms in an attempt to achieve comfort. "Why?"

His gaze wavers from mine as he reaches up to scratch the budding stubble veiling his jaw. "Can I not ask how you are?"

My eyes flicker down to the cancer stick resting between my fingers, watching as the tobacco inside the paper fizzles into embers. "I'm fine."

Lane's stare diffidently skips over me. "I heard about the fire."

"Oh, really?" I feign interest. "Yeah, I started that."

Lane parries my claim with an eye roll. "Okay, fine, you don't want to talk about it."

I twist my face to mimic his thwarted expression, but unlike his, mine contains traces of derision.

Jesse gently sticks his elbow into my side, his forehead creasing. "What fire?"

"You know, the bushfire about to hop the river and burn all your fancy houses down," I tell him.

At times I wonder if my aversion to answering questions directly stems from a genuine inability to provide a straight response, or if it's simply due to my firm disbelief in others tracking down my thoughts.

Lane sends me an indecipherable look. "The fire that destroyed your house, Tilley," he states blankly.

"A fire reached your place?" Jesse attempts to interrupt the scowl I have glued to the police officer sitting beside me.

Lane entirely ignores me. "Completely unrelated to the bushfires," he declines. "Just Tilley's house."

My tongue darts across my suddenly dry lips, my throat creaking as I attempt to swallow.

Jesse's widened eyes fixate on me. "Your house burned down?"

In an instant, I bring myself to my feet. Laying one hand on the heated metal of the fence, I jump its height in one swift movement. Both Jesse's and Lane's calls are absorbed in my wake as I adopt a steady pace in a bid to put distance between us.

My father is wrong. Fear is not what fuels my running. It's the anger burrowing it's way into my soul with no other means of escape, however unwarranted it may be. Fear isn't the card I want to play. Nor is anger. Neither emotion alone will propel my success. Instead, both are cemented into the foundations of my mind; a surface on which I will build to my requital.

People such as Arlo and Finn should not be ahead in the game of life. My father should not be awarded small triumphs along the way such as the proclamation that the death of my siblings was an accident. Maybe this is how I win; maybe it was always how I was supposed to win. Maybe all I have to do is set each piece playing my game back in their places.