Post by nrt on Mar 2, 2014 1:34:26 GMT -8
Straight Flush
A short tale of addiction
NRT
He swaps the thin, shiny blade hand to hand, over and over and then holds it still while he finishes another beer. Looking straight ahead, he throws it with callous venom, at the poster on the wall.
“shit!”
He has missed her by about half an inch.
The picture and the area of wall around it are pockmarked with the results of dozens of previous attempts, most much further away from their intended target.
Struggling to his feet he edges round the table, disturbing a bottle and the scattered cans, littering the sticky floor.
The blade is buried about an inch into the wall and it takes him two attempts to extract it. Her smile seems to mock him even more now. Something rises up, up through his gut, bringing a half digested slug of booze into the back of his throat, along with that insistent, oft repeated desire, to reach into the picture, grab that neck and slap that smile right off her face…
They share a moment together locked eye to eye, then, he turns and shuffles to the bathroom, steadying himself on every solid handhold en-route.
Dropping onto the can he collapses into a relaxed slump, as his body takes over and does what it has to do with his beer and bourbon. He stares at the knife resting between his hands. His many, futile, attempts at assassination have rounded and dulled the point, but the shaft is still razor sharp. As he turns it over, it slips slightly and slices across his palm, not deep, but like a paper cut, wincingly painful.
Jumping up with the shock, he staggers and falls; not enough of his blood can be bothered to make it up to his brain in time to keep him conscious. Then, his momentary blackout is complimented by a full frontal forehead crack on the rim of the grimy bathtub, closely followed by another from the white tiled floor…
The room is suddenly swirling, dark and the air stiff with cigar smoke. His eyes adjust and watch with anticipation as his fingers fan out the cards he holds, one by one; 6 of hearts, 4 of spades, 6 of spades, 6 of clubs…
He stops before revealing the last card, the jack of clubs. Placing them lightly on the table, he looks around, as casually as he can.
They had been playing for around five hours, no one was up or down very much, except him. He hadn’t won a hand since they got there.
He tries to make a non-impressed face, just in case, but no one is looking at him, they were still sorting out their own hands. As he turns, the others cast a glance at him, so he throws a thumb over his shoulder in the rough direction of the drinks. It would seem no one else wants one.
It was always the same, this dream. It had happened so many times now that he knew it was a dream. As he rose from the table, he would be asked if he was ‘in' and he would reach down to the few notes and coins in front of his seat and throw in five bucks with a shrug and murmur “I guess so…” then go and get a glass filled with ice and whiskey.
They would bet, he would follow, not raising, just going with the flow, hoping they could not see the electricity prickling at his fingertips, or hear the thumping of his heart, because, right now, he was more than alive.
Then they draw cards, he tosses away the jack and the four, and two blue and white backed cards arc out from the dealer and pirouette to a slithering stop in front of him.
He bends up the corner of the first, just enough to see what he already knows will be there; the red 6 and a hint of diamond. Four sixes; his best hand in months.
The trouble is; he also already knows the end because all this really happened. Only now, in his dream of it, he knows that he should stop. So, like a lead cylinder has fallen through a tube running down his whole body, his bowels want to explode and his will wants him to scream out “STOP!”
Yet he still throws in the last 10 bucks, when the dealer asks him what he is going to do. And he’s still totting up the other things he can put on the table, now that the money is all gone even though he knows the outcome of the hand is always the same; his four sixes will never beat that straight flush, in hearts, eight to queen.
And nothing he can say or do will get the car back, or the borrowed money, or the time, or the trust, or fix the broken promises and take back the lies.
In a blink he is snapped into a new, but just as familiar a scene; he’s begging and pleading and saying he’s learned and yet still he’s left stranded, watching her go, dragging the kids and he really is sorry and bitter and broken and broke. And the house is up for sale and his boss, on the phone, wants to know, “where the hell he’s been?” and, “can he call in on Friday?”
And he turns and sees... the picture on the wall; that tatty poster from their first trip to Vegas, with that enlarged red queen of hearts, mocking him, for the idiot everyone always said he was…
Despite the bumps on the head, he should wake up now and he would have, but for the knife, which broke his fall... as it slid between his ribs.
So the room goes cold.
Now the Queen of Hearts smiles down with her full and final approval. He has followed the course she set out for him; slots, cards, debt, disaster, right to the bitter end, and, just as a bonus, even painted those white floor tiles red.
A short tale of addiction
NRT
He swaps the thin, shiny blade hand to hand, over and over and then holds it still while he finishes another beer. Looking straight ahead, he throws it with callous venom, at the poster on the wall.
“shit!”
He has missed her by about half an inch.
The picture and the area of wall around it are pockmarked with the results of dozens of previous attempts, most much further away from their intended target.
Struggling to his feet he edges round the table, disturbing a bottle and the scattered cans, littering the sticky floor.
The blade is buried about an inch into the wall and it takes him two attempts to extract it. Her smile seems to mock him even more now. Something rises up, up through his gut, bringing a half digested slug of booze into the back of his throat, along with that insistent, oft repeated desire, to reach into the picture, grab that neck and slap that smile right off her face…
They share a moment together locked eye to eye, then, he turns and shuffles to the bathroom, steadying himself on every solid handhold en-route.
Dropping onto the can he collapses into a relaxed slump, as his body takes over and does what it has to do with his beer and bourbon. He stares at the knife resting between his hands. His many, futile, attempts at assassination have rounded and dulled the point, but the shaft is still razor sharp. As he turns it over, it slips slightly and slices across his palm, not deep, but like a paper cut, wincingly painful.
Jumping up with the shock, he staggers and falls; not enough of his blood can be bothered to make it up to his brain in time to keep him conscious. Then, his momentary blackout is complimented by a full frontal forehead crack on the rim of the grimy bathtub, closely followed by another from the white tiled floor…
The room is suddenly swirling, dark and the air stiff with cigar smoke. His eyes adjust and watch with anticipation as his fingers fan out the cards he holds, one by one; 6 of hearts, 4 of spades, 6 of spades, 6 of clubs…
He stops before revealing the last card, the jack of clubs. Placing them lightly on the table, he looks around, as casually as he can.
They had been playing for around five hours, no one was up or down very much, except him. He hadn’t won a hand since they got there.
He tries to make a non-impressed face, just in case, but no one is looking at him, they were still sorting out their own hands. As he turns, the others cast a glance at him, so he throws a thumb over his shoulder in the rough direction of the drinks. It would seem no one else wants one.
It was always the same, this dream. It had happened so many times now that he knew it was a dream. As he rose from the table, he would be asked if he was ‘in' and he would reach down to the few notes and coins in front of his seat and throw in five bucks with a shrug and murmur “I guess so…” then go and get a glass filled with ice and whiskey.
They would bet, he would follow, not raising, just going with the flow, hoping they could not see the electricity prickling at his fingertips, or hear the thumping of his heart, because, right now, he was more than alive.
Then they draw cards, he tosses away the jack and the four, and two blue and white backed cards arc out from the dealer and pirouette to a slithering stop in front of him.
He bends up the corner of the first, just enough to see what he already knows will be there; the red 6 and a hint of diamond. Four sixes; his best hand in months.
The trouble is; he also already knows the end because all this really happened. Only now, in his dream of it, he knows that he should stop. So, like a lead cylinder has fallen through a tube running down his whole body, his bowels want to explode and his will wants him to scream out “STOP!”
Yet he still throws in the last 10 bucks, when the dealer asks him what he is going to do. And he’s still totting up the other things he can put on the table, now that the money is all gone even though he knows the outcome of the hand is always the same; his four sixes will never beat that straight flush, in hearts, eight to queen.
And nothing he can say or do will get the car back, or the borrowed money, or the time, or the trust, or fix the broken promises and take back the lies.
In a blink he is snapped into a new, but just as familiar a scene; he’s begging and pleading and saying he’s learned and yet still he’s left stranded, watching her go, dragging the kids and he really is sorry and bitter and broken and broke. And the house is up for sale and his boss, on the phone, wants to know, “where the hell he’s been?” and, “can he call in on Friday?”
And he turns and sees... the picture on the wall; that tatty poster from their first trip to Vegas, with that enlarged red queen of hearts, mocking him, for the idiot everyone always said he was…
Despite the bumps on the head, he should wake up now and he would have, but for the knife, which broke his fall... as it slid between his ribs.
So the room goes cold.
Now the Queen of Hearts smiles down with her full and final approval. He has followed the course she set out for him; slots, cards, debt, disaster, right to the bitter end, and, just as a bonus, even painted those white floor tiles red.
