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The gun’s weight is heavy in his hand. Solid, cold, existing within his touch, a reminder of everything to gain and to lose.
“You want to play?” says the man he met thirty minutes ago. He stares into Anthony, gaze sharp. Leans down and does a line.
Anthony doesn’t respect the man with an answer. Instead, he chooses to absentmindedly trace the gun's engravings and the cylinder. Six shots, one bullet.
A long pause of silence filled only with the sound of scraping and wrong decisions. The man’s free hand digs impatiently into the table. Anthony taps his fingers against the table, one, two, three, four… metronome in quality, consistent, anxious.
He’s measuring the odds. How much does he value his life? What a stupid question. Whatever, he can discredit it as a "calculated risk"— opportunities, possibilities, benefits and consequences…
“... Only if I go first.” Anthony says finally. He barely registers his own voice, he’s not in control any more. Instead, he’s being led by the deepest, most blackened part of him, the part of him normally trapped in the hole he dug for it, now climbing out using the cocaine-induced adrenaline—that suicidal, nagging monster whispering in his ear—What do I have to lose…
“Sure, boy.” The man laughs, making a vague gesture with his hand. “Go on. Blow your brains out.”
Anthony’s trembling now. He’s not sure whether it’s from the cocaine, or the gun, or the fear, but he knows he wants to stand up and run as far away as he can, to bury himself in a pile of dirt six feet under and suffocate himself and return his nutrients into the soil. But he’s here now, and his pride is too fucking big to back out.
He raises the gun to his head, and spins the cylinder. Click, Click, Click, Click, Click, Click.
He exhales slowly. Holds his breath, closes his eyes.
Pulls the trigger.
Click!
It’s blank.
He’s still alive.
He feels like god.
The man’s still grinning, and Anthony matches it, eyes wild.
“Your turn.”
Fingers pass the weapon. How many lives it’s taken is unknown but at least in the double-digits.
Anthony sighs and leans down to do a line. The rush is much needed. He swears it makes his head clearer, turns the room into sharp focus, heart pumping fastfast fast…
Before he can even realize, the man has the gun to his head, finger on trigger. Face almost in relief for death, aching for it, to end the mad cycle of highs and lows. Just die already, fucker…
Click!
Blank, again.
Fucking hell.
The man’s smile stretches wider, cynical and wrong. His teeth are disgusting and tinted jaundice. Unpleasant and rotting. He’d be better off dead.
The cold rush of winter sighs its sorrows, but Anthony’s still hot, flesh burning under skin. The monster rears its ugly head. It’s nagging. Knocking down his doors. If he dies, he knows what’s happening . Either an infinity of nothing, or an infinity of pain and suffering. The last, final gamble. Really, what’s worse?
Whatever. What’s life worth without a bit of fun?
Anthony takes the gun and puts it to his head.
Click!
Blank.
He’s not dead.
It’s the stranger's turn. He’s still fucking smiling—does he have any other emotion besides sadistic glee? The man’s fingers are now digging lines into the table, little veins perfect for blood to flow through. Wouldn’t it be so nice if he just died? Brains splat out. Blood on the table, ruining the cocaine. Dead, gone. It’s a strange intimacy, this acquaintance with death. It wouldn’t be the first time Anthony’s witnessed death, and certainly not the last.
“50% odds, huh?” The man whispers, leaning closer. His breath smells like tar and rot. Spindly fingers curl around the revolver, over Anthony’s own hands, and yanks. That fucker.
Anthony holds his breath and watches the man bring the gun up into his mouth. His tongue sucks at the cylinder. It’s so obscene it almost makes him embarrassed, if not for the drugs hazing his judgment.
Either the stranger dies, or Anthony. How tragic. The stranger surely can’t be much older than him. Perhaps, mid 30s? He can tell by the wrinkle lines and dark circles. Latin descent. Definitely a drug addict. Definitely not new to this game. Probably needs the money just as much as he does.
The stranger stares at Anthony darkly. He pulls the trigger.
…
The man’s head lolls back. Ringing--high, shrill, insistent---pounds in his head. Blood is everywhere. He can even see some gore splattered against the table and wall. The man’s dead.
Good fucking riddance.
Anthony stands up, and scrapes as much non-contaminated coke off the table into a bag. Sprinkles a little onto the man’s open mouth, a small tribute. Spits on him. Takes the gun. He reaches into the stranger’s pocket—six hundred-dollar bills.
Maybe three weeks worth of drugs. He can make it last.