jpgallagher
08-24-2014, 02:25 PM
It was an illness – a sordid little thing which he would never admit to anyone – that kept him from looking the company directly in the eyes. Every few minutes he’d muster the strength for a fleeting glance, but in those opposing pupils he saw the shame and the judgement and he saw that they knew it all. So his glance would retreat, back to the floorboards, to the ceiling, or back to feigning great interest at the fire escape sign.
It was an unspoken truth, but they all knew that when the amber haze set in, his mind would saunter back to that bold world of red and black and red and black and red. His night would become a blend of infinite possibilities – the belief that, for a split second at least, he could predict the future. While a few correct predictions would swell his chest, they all knew the inevitable – that his clawing hands would grab for one spin too many, proving that his luck was fallible and his bank balance was bound to slowly drip coin by coin down into the darkness of that hole in the table.
The mornings were the worst. The first split-second of opening his eyes, only to realise that the dream had slipped away and he was faced with the cold truth of an empty bank account and a chest full of shame. A few showers might stop the cringing, and books or films or half-hearted conversations could provide a brief distraction; but for a week at least, his waking moments would be filled with the thud of a re-realisation of what he’d done.
Some sober days he’d even believe that he had shaken off the curse completely; striding past a bookies without a cursory glance at that world of hope. He could go weeks or even months without a second thought to that rattle of ball on gleaming wood, but still the allure festered in the depths of his head, sure to rear it’s foolish head after provocation from a few whiskeys.
That immovable allure is what they all knew. As the party danced their way through one polite conversation after another, he could see that they knew of his weakness, the one that would remain for as long as he could foresee. So he kept his head down, staring into chins or foreheads or dangling earlobes just to not feel the judgement. He kept his head down for the starter, for the main, and for the dessert. He even kept his head down during the Digestif – the key which opened up his brain for another shining night of infinite possibility.
It was an unspoken truth, but they all knew that when the amber haze set in, his mind would saunter back to that bold world of red and black and red and black and red. His night would become a blend of infinite possibilities – the belief that, for a split second at least, he could predict the future. While a few correct predictions would swell his chest, they all knew the inevitable – that his clawing hands would grab for one spin too many, proving that his luck was fallible and his bank balance was bound to slowly drip coin by coin down into the darkness of that hole in the table.
The mornings were the worst. The first split-second of opening his eyes, only to realise that the dream had slipped away and he was faced with the cold truth of an empty bank account and a chest full of shame. A few showers might stop the cringing, and books or films or half-hearted conversations could provide a brief distraction; but for a week at least, his waking moments would be filled with the thud of a re-realisation of what he’d done.
Some sober days he’d even believe that he had shaken off the curse completely; striding past a bookies without a cursory glance at that world of hope. He could go weeks or even months without a second thought to that rattle of ball on gleaming wood, but still the allure festered in the depths of his head, sure to rear it’s foolish head after provocation from a few whiskeys.
That immovable allure is what they all knew. As the party danced their way through one polite conversation after another, he could see that they knew of his weakness, the one that would remain for as long as he could foresee. So he kept his head down, staring into chins or foreheads or dangling earlobes just to not feel the judgement. He kept his head down for the starter, for the main, and for the dessert. He even kept his head down during the Digestif – the key which opened up his brain for another shining night of infinite possibility.