EPT
Every Day You Taunt Me
It wasn't always this way. I remember that we were together. I'd see you, and click you, giddy with the uncertainty of my next opponent's identity. You would work hard for me, expanding search and finding me rival after rival, each more powerful than the last.
It was at the end of a long ladder session that things first went awry. As I clicked away, a sudden pain shot up hand, starting at the base of my index knuckle and extending back to the top of my wrist. Sudden thoughts of injured pro gamers, carpal tunnel surgeries, and medicated bandages sprung into my mind-- sure, I don't play nearly as often, but I use a computer for my work, spending up to 12 hours a day using keyboard and mouse. It could happen to me.
I box all my scvs and marines (painful), attack-move (painful), and switch to my left hand to call down a mule and queue up some more marines to support the doomed, desperate push.
"gg," I type, "wp."
* * *
It turns out, thankfully, to just be a pulled muscle, and a few days later, I'm ready to ladder again. But as I come back to the multiplayer screen, I see you again, and something feels... off. It's been a couple days since I've played-- I better play some practice games, first. I IM a practice partner and turn away from you for the first of what will be many times.
* * *
Every day, it seems, things grow more strained between us. Where you once glowed a pleasant amber, neglect has turned that glow from honeysuckle to smoldering ember. Our awkwardness, our separation, hangs between us whenever we're close. It is a plexiglass wall, transparent but discriminating. What happened to us? Why can't we be together like we used to?
Another day, another set of customs with friends. I press onwards to more ICJug, more Create Custom Game. Another day, another sad avoidance. I have to pass you every time I play with the others. You don't scold at me, or yell at me either-- that I could bear. No, you do far worse. You are silent. You watch me go every day, and never say a word to stop me.
You never stop me.
* * *
It's been almost 2 weeks, now. Clicking you is a pleasant memory shrouded in unpleasant connotations. I miss that sound, though-- the sound of whirring air as the match search begins. I miss the ominous rumble that an opponent has been found. I miss fighting faceless enemies one after the other. I miss you.
My bonus pool climbs, Mallory-like in its ascent. 25, then 50, then 100 points. Every day you mock me as I pass by. You gleam with malevolence. The bonus pool tells me who I really am.
I am a coward.
* * *
Atonement comes slow to those without courage. It has been long since my baptism in the fire of the placement matches, long since my communion with the changing of the seasons. I seek shelter from the guilt that weighs upon me, but there is no shelter for a man without honor.
There is nowhere left to run, there is no-one left to be. Every stone has been turned, every truth laid bare. All shall repent on the cracked desert of Season 3 beneath the scorching sun of the Ladder. There is no more escape. There is no more mercy. There is only justice.
At last, I can bear it no further, and drag over that fateful mouse to you. I press the button I've pressed a thousand times.
I press Find Match.
I smile.
I'm back.
