He removed the last piece from the board delicately, with the tips of his index finger and thumb. He then stared at it for a few seconds, as if he were weighing the benefits and losses that would no doubt arise after swallowing that one last piece whole. The piece itself was beautifully carved in the shape of a woman, dare I say, the woman of his dreams. She, the figure, started bleeding from one of its sides, as if it had been wounded by a tiny blade, a blade shaped by the words he uttered when he asked her out on a date. Staring still at her, he licked the blood, which was not blood at all, but a fruity, slightly sour, substance. A mockery of blood. As he licked he could hear the figure quietly laughing. Hurtfully laughing. At him, at his question, at the very centre of his, for lack of a better word, soul. And slowly left the piece on the table, grabbed a mallet and began to bash his own head in, expressionless, fulfilling a fate he had avoided for far too long.