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As the President awaited his imminent death, his back straight against the back of his chair and his head held high, he reflected.
He reflected on many things. On his family, and his friends. On the choices he made and the ones he didn't.
The thing he reflected on the most was, of course, the Suicide Club.
His Suicide Club.
He had founded and ruled as The President of the Suicide Club, a club that you could join but never leave alive, for years. Many men he had seen die. Many men he had seen live. None had he let leave still breathing. Many cards he had dealt, many Ace of Spades he had watched be revealed. Many men had sought him out to join the secret society he led. Many men he had extended the invitation of his club to.
All of these men, including himself, were cowards.
Pitiful cowards that feared the very thing they lusted for.
For what was the Suicide Club, but a club that was founded for the men who wished to end their pitiful and pathetic lives but lacked the capability to do so? The members of the Suicide Club feared the reactions of their friends and families if they died at their own hands, the members of the Suicide Club feared the sharp blade of a knife against the wrist, the searing flash of a bullet to the head, the burning of a rope against the throat.
They feared the act of suicide but desperately craved the thought of it.
And so the Suicide Club was formed, a society that offered a way to dance a seductive performance with Lady Death, flirting intimately with her and being whisked away to safety at the last moment when the card at your seat was revealed to be anything but the Ace of Spades, symbolic of the singular shovel that would dig your unmarked grave following your demise at the hands of the Suicide Club. Or perhaps you were the one unlucky player, and your membership was up, your flirtatious and appealing dance partner quickly replaced with the horrific and gruesome Grim Reaper eagerly awaiting your soul.
There was only one way to leave the Suicide Club.
And you never left alive.
As The President, he never played.
Lady Death was not one he danced with, the Grim Reaper not one who awaited him.
As President, he never drew from the fan of cards he offered the other members of the club.
But, despite his seeming invulnerability, he had lost.
'Lasciate Ogni Speranza Voi Ch'entrate'
'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here'
That was the saying so boldly plastered over the doors which opened to reveal the room where the Suicide Club would meet. With each new member, regardless of how long or short their membership would be, The President took care to guide them under the words, motioning to them with an exaggerated gesture and explaining their meaning while relishing in the spark of fear that would shine within the newcomer's eyes - along with the hints of regret.
The President had never listened to that warning above the doors, not even sparing the scrawled words a glance the countless times he had crossed the threshold alone into the room where the club held its meetings.
For he had nothing to fear.
He was invincible.
He was invincible.
He had been arrogant, too confident in his success and immunity. He had been clumsy, he had let down his guard in favor of toying with his victim and therefore allowed his victim to turn the tables, allowed his victim to trap him in the chair that was metaphorically soaked in the blood of all those who had drawn the Ace of Spades previously. His victim had escaped, leaving The President alone to await his inescapable death.
He had been a fool.
The large clock was loudly ticking behind him, an ever-present reminder of the fate that awaited him, most likely only minutes - or seconds - away.
Now, across the table in front of him lay the scattered cards that his victim - ex-victim - had torn apart in their crazed fear of their demise. All but one card was torn to shreds.
There were fifty-two cards in a standard deck of cards.
There is one Ace of Spades in a deck.
The Suicide Club consisted of thirteen members. Twelve players.
There were many days when the Suicide Club would have no victims. Sometimes they would go for months, awaiting each new meeting with bated breath.
The President had seen every type of card pulled throughout his presidency.
The only surviving card from his victim's rampage lay right in front of the President's chair, as if purposefully left to mock him.
The Ace of Spades.
The President had never drawn the Ace of Spades.
The President had never drawn a single card from the deck.
After years of being the president of the Suicide Club, and years of watching men draw the Ace of Spades and submit to their fate in the card-themed room, it was his turn.
No doubt many of the men who joined did not want to die, when it came time for them to breathe their last breath, when it was time for their hearts to cease beating.
The President knew the familiar look of fear intimately, those chosen by the cards held it more often than not. There had been many who had cried and screamed, clawed at the walls and frenziedly threw themselves at the door concealed behind the clock which the President used, in an attempt to escape their fate.
Unlike those men, the President would not struggle.
He had been shocked, of course, he hadn't expected to be beaten at his own game - especially by a newcomer - but he was ready.
This death had been years in the making.
The clock struck twelve.
The President closed his eyes, and let out a heavy exhale.
He was ready.
He was leaving the Suicide Club.