There were many things peculiar about Gideon Hackett, as all knew and were willing to tell. What no one ever mentioned, was the drumming. 't-tap, t-tap, t-tap' It followed him everywhere, thudding and thumping like mad. It filled his every hour from dawn to dusk like a heavenly, or hellish, drumbeat. It always was a very long time before he realized that the sound was coming from him when he looked down at his own frenzied fingers. The agonizing, tormented, never-ending rat-a-tat was both his grace, and his curse.
He sat there, alone, slumped over his desk, cold biting at his bare back. It was like an old comrade, a fitting motif for his life, and so he cared of it not. Gideon simply sat there, staring at the pieces of the marble chess board before him, tapping incessantly, desperately, as his heart throbbed in tune as if threatening to burst from his mighty tanned chest. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, breathing sharp, ragged as he watched the board, each piece a metaphor for his situation. The white pawn, sitting in the middle of the board, shielded behind stronger forces, waiting to climb over their corpses and take his place of ascension on the other side of the board. The piece disgusted him, a weakling, a paper tiger. His eyes flicked to the next piece, closing in on his king, a white bishop. He was no stranger to this one, he'd fought it's counterpart before and taken it, but now this one was elusive, dangerous, and backed with an entire board of white. With a BANG he slammed his fist on the table in frustration, the tapping momentarily stopped. He looked to the king in his ivory crown, far off yet so close, so close within his reach. He tapped a finger on it a few times, then brought it back to his side and resumed.
'T-tap, t-tap, t-tap…' His mind drummed on, fingers dancing hysterically on the desk in time. He felt eyes on his back, but ignored them, it was only in his head. He had to focus, he had to see the whole board. 'Tap-ita, tap-ita, tap-ita…' The drumming grew louder, faster, his mind racing like a drowning man desperate to find air. He could have sworn he heard footsteps, again he pushed them from his mind, it was nothing. He looked at his pieces frantic to seek the way but not able to find it. "The queen's knight…" he breathed out raggedly "The queen's knight is the key-" he suddenly stopped, drawing in a sharp breath, petrified. His tapping stopped, for a moment he could have sworn he smelled it.
"Lavender…" he breathed out in horror, the drum suddenly resuming, blaring in his ears without his fingers ever moving, this time a deep thumping as his own heart filled his tortured ears. Lavender, it was unmistakable. He'd forgotten the one piece that was his greatest obstacle: the white queen. His own cold breath quickened hoarsely, the footsteps he thought he heard earlier drew nearer. His heart still raced, his mind in shreds from that one scent, one half screaming to get away, the other desperate to seek out its source and embrace it. It was closer now, he had to focus on the white queen, but now the scent of peppermint had filled his nostrils. He heard the sweeping of a gown, Ithanian silk. He gulped as the paces behind him came to a stop, despite his attempts to block them out and focus on the board before him.
He felt the cold hand on his shoulder before a smooth, familiar, silky voice whispered to him, like a lace "Thy heart Gideon… thy wretched, guilty heart Gideon." He let out a wild, hoarse scream as he tore a letter opener from the table and whipped around to drive it into the source. The blade tore through nothing but empty air before slipping through his cold, sweaty fingers. His eyes burned, twitching about and searching for the specter.
It was with a second wave of horror that he felt fingers on his flesh again, he spun around, but was met only with a quiet, consoling hush from a white haired woman. He collected his bearings before recognizing, with relief, the features of his dearest friend. He choked out "I-I thought I heard… I thought she was here… I-" She merely hushed him again, tilting her head up to plant a kiss on his cool lips. "It was only a dream… come back to bed." The woman took him by the hand and slowly guided him back. After a minute, her warm, loving touch soothed his wretched, aching heart. He needed not reflect on futures that may have been, or paths he may have taken. And, with a silver kiss, he put that phantom to bed.
