these games we play

It always started as a “game.” That was how Frank framed it, anyway. Something to pass the time in the dead of afternoon, to “teach River the ropes.” He was supposed to play along – Frank’s clever little trainee, learning how the world worked. He was nine, and the world, he figured, would have to work a lot harder than that if it wanted him to sit through one of Frank’s “lessons.”Today, Frank had tied his wrists behind the old kitchen chair, its wood creaking under River’s shifting weight. Frank’s hands moved quickly and confidently, knotting the rope as if he’d been doing this his whole life. Maybe he had. He looked almost bored, a faint smile playing at his lips as he circled River, tapping a finger against the table with a rhythm that was just a bit too fast.