Extra Lives
by Robert Hudgens
After things between us get serious, Samantha, the gamer girl I kissed in middle school, starts inviting me over to play Castlevania. Always needing help defeating the Grim Reaper, she frequently passes the controller off to me, but no matter what I try, even my tuned reflexes can’t overcome such a late-stage adversary. After repeatedly enduring Death’s eight-bit laughter chiming throughout the “Game Over” screen, we take a break.
Bedridden, Samantha reclines her head onto some pillows. Her arms fan out as if she’s been crucified, and her breathing sounds weak. Though I hate the pain growing inside her, I feel more frustrated towards her mom. Her own daughter endures body-ravaging chemotherapy, and the woman lies intoxicated downstairs, sleeping soundly like some trashy mutt in the heat. Surrounded by litters of beer bottles, it’s as if she’s already welcomed the worst, embracing a dark futility I could never accept.
So that evening, I take action.
Kneeling beside Samantha’s bed, I open some stolen Tupperware. Several orange shrooms lie snug inside. Samantha’s incarcerated father once said these stinky dandies gave great boosts to more than just Super Mario, so long as your stash remained poison free. But today, I just want them to supersede Samantha’s agony with something more cathartic and enjoyable.
We take turns eating the goods, but only awkward silence follows. Disappointed, I reach for the controller. But as I press the console’s power button, Samantha sits up, and her breathing turns strong, confident even. Her pale legs then find their way from under the bed sheets. While rising to her feet, new blonde growths sprout over her bald scalp, and I do what so many older consoles tend to do in a hot moment: I freeze.
Grinning, Samantha approaches. “What’s wrong?” she asks, lifting my mouth shut. “Tongue turning dry?” She takes my hand and leads me to a window. She may not remember but I made this very look the day we met, the same day I found out Samantha played video games. The moment was the same then as it is now: something wonderful.
Outside, the world warps, turning artificially textured. Surrounding rain puddles blaze into pits of lava. The roads and sidewalks collapse into jumpable chasms, and dark clouds, bruising the sky, harden into walkable land masses. With my hand in hers, Samantha pulls us into the open air, and we somersault like acrobats onto the nearest platform. Once steady, our clothes change, too. Instead of an army green t-shirt with shredded jeans, I bear a sword and chainmail, light as silk, while blue power armor clads over Samantha’s body.
Pixelated enemies roam the fields below us, waiting to be challenged. They range from skeletons and werewolves to hellhounds and giant arachnids. Before long, Samantha looks at me, a healthy hunger in her eyes. The last time she expressed such a craving, she’d been tasting my jawline sophomore year, kissing me in a way so wholesome I poured everything into her.
Samantha leaps down the platforms and faces her adversaries. Unclipping a brown whip from her side, a la Dr. Jones, she lashes a cluster into oblivion. My senses swivel every which way. She then sprints towards some vampires, and I hear her shout, “Fucking Leukemia,” before slaying them too. I smile at that. There she is, winning her battle. I’m positive nothing can hurt her anymore.
With the field clear of monsters, I jump down to high five Samantha, but her gaze turns distant. I can’t tell if she’s looking at me or through me. Past my figure or into something deeper.
Following her eyes, I notice something slinks in the distance. Against the rays of a lemon drop sun, the figure appears to float toward us, hooded and cloaked, but as I watch the being conjure a long scythe into existence, my curiosity immediately flushes into a cold panic.
Without thinking, I charge, sword swinging, but the figure I recognize as Death blocks every strike. He slaps outlines of his bony fingers into my cheek, and I stumble back. I yell for Samantha to run, but she just sinks to the earth on grass-stained knees.
Death thrusts the blunt end of his weapon into my center, and I crumple, allowing him to corner Samantha. As his scythe rises into the air, I desperately throw more shrooms into my love’s hands. Our adversary pauses at this and chuckles, but I egg Samantha on anyway. She eats all the goods. Even the purple ones.
If we can’t vanquish this foe, we’ll outlast him. Magic shrooms grant extra lives. That’s the key. But after swallowing them down, Samantha’s skin turns grainy and grey. Her lavish hair sheds itself out, balding her scalp more barren than the moon. And all the while, her sad eyes convey an undercut knowledge, unbuttoning my resolve like a vest. Death watches everything. With a skeletal smirk, he begins to laugh, twisted and vile. I am thoroughly played.
Then the world around us warps again, and I find myself holding a limp Samantha back in her bed. Blood starts ribboning around her mouth, and a familiar “Game Over” screen manifests within the television. Death’s punishing laughter tolls down its letters.
My heart is diced as Samantha allows the weight of her eyelids to anchor her asleep. “Don’t blame yourself,” a slurred voice whispers, but it’s not Samantha. Her mom leans against the door frame, holding the bag of shrooms. Dumping them all on the floor, she tramples their shriveled bodies before sitting next to me. “You were just trying to keep the game going.”
Robert Hudgens is an author of literary fiction, residing in Tifton, GA. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, White Wall Review, Southbound, and Marrow among others. He holds a Masters of Secondary Education from Georgia College and State University and enjoys running, gaming, traveling, and cheering on the Michigan Wolverines with his wife and three sons.