Jackpot

The draw decides more than money.

“I have done so much just to have enough to lose ” Goes trought Markus head, standing in the bus, near the doors with a gigarete in his mouth, unpatiently waiting for the next stop just to be able to get out and light it.

The" bus reaches the Northbound station.
The doors slide open, and he steps out.

Before his second foot even hits the ground, he lights the cigarette he’s been holding between his lips. He inhales deeply, staring down at the sidewalk as if something might reveal itself there.

A horn snaps him out of it; a driver swerves aggressively to avoid a cyclist, that somehow manage to live another day.

He starts walking looking down at the pavement The half-smoked cigarette lands behind him, a spark fading on the pavement. After a few moments lost in thought, he impatiently lights another. Soon, he reaches the entrance of a tall building. He presses the buzzer and waits.

The glass door reflects him — unshaven, hair grown too long since his last visit to the barber. He stares at the reflection until the lock clicks open, ending his brief drift into nowhere.

The elevator is out of order. Eight floors of stairs remind him why smoking is a bad idea.

The apartment door is open, waiting.

“Mom, why’d you leave the door open?” he calls, stepping inside.
“You know this isn’t a nice neighborhood.”

“I knew it was you,” his mother answers from the kitchen.
“I know the time you come home. It’s always the same.

And what would someone even steal from us? Robbing us would be a bad business — they’d leave the same way they came,” the same voice replies.

“Yes, but—” he starts, while closing the door behind him, then stops as she interrupts.

“How was work today, Markus?” she asks, coming to greet him with a smile.

“The way it always is, Mom. Same people, same tasks, same money. Even the same damn flies.”

“The same flies?” she laughs. “You should pay attention to work, not to the flies.”

“That’s what I do all day. The flies just don’t leave me alone,” he mutters.

“Oh, the flies!” she chuckles, shaking her head.

His thoughts drift elsewhere for a brief moment; to his wife, to his child, to that day they left.

“Did you talk to your wife today, son?” she asks.

“My ex-wife, Mother,” he says, sharper than he means to.

“Did you talk to Rebecca?” she asks again, using her name.

“No. Not today.” He pauses. “But she’s not coming back. I’m sure of that.”

“You don’t know that,” she says softly. “You just need to take control of your addiction and end it.”

“My addiction won again today,” he says, pulling a lottery ticket from his pocket and placing it on the table.
He tries to look at her, but shame pushes his eyes down. His breathing grows fast and uneven; he becomes nervous.

She looks at him, then at the ticket. For a moment she says nothing. Then, gently:
“Well, at least you’re sharing it with me. That’s a good start. You know what they say — know your enemy.”

“Who says that?” Markus asks quietly. “Who are they?”

She shrugs. “I don’t remember. Read it somewhere, I think.”

“Wasted money again,” he says. “But damn it, I can’t control it. It tricks my mind. There’s always that voice Maybe today your life will change. and the voice was right my life has changed since i heard it the first time ”

“You’ll get control of it,” she says. “You will. And when you do, things will get better.”

Markus looks at her without saying nothing.

“Dinner’s almost ready. Go wash your hands now.” she rushes him.

He leaves the room without replying. The ticket stays on the table.

In the bathroom, he turns on the water, watches it run, then shuts it off and rushes to the balcony, where lights another cigarette.

My life is fucked up, he thinks, staring into the city night.

He sees his son watching him leave that day, confused.
He sees the casinos, the tickets, the slow decay of everything he once was.

That vice took his mind and his money, and made him lose control, doing things despite knowing they led to self-destruction.
The vice didn’t care. The vice never does.

He looks over the railing, flicks the cigarette away, and lights another.
Dark thoughts take shape.

If I jump, it’s over. Three, maybe four seconds to hit the ground. Terrifying ones, sure, but still.
Hanging might be better. Quicker. Hanging somewhere — it doesn’t need to be high. Put the rope around my neck, sit down, go unconscious, and it’s done.

He exhales smoke into air.
But tomorrow, he decides. Not today. I bought the damn lottery ticket, I might as well wait until after the draw.

He grips the balcony rail. His knees bend slightly, like a diver’s. Then he lets go.

“Tomorrow,” he mutters. “Fucking tomorrow.”

“‘Coward,’ he mutters between his lips.” He tosses the cigarette into the dark, wastes another moment gathering himself, and goes back inside.

“Did you enjoy the spaghetti and meatballs I packed for work?” his mother asks.

“They tasted better than anything money can buy,” he says.

“I’m happy to hear that. This way, we can save a bit.”
She hugs him.

They sit down. His mother smiles. It’s been a long time since she’s heard warmth in his voice. That gives her hope, puts a masks over the heaviness of the situation for a moment.
Maybe he can still turn his life around, she thinks.

“Mom, this is another masterpiece. Fantastic,” he says, eating.
“I hope a little’s left for tomorrow.”

His eyes flicker toward the yellow ticket on the table, and some thoughts pour back into his head.
Ah, tomorrow…

His mother notices his mood shifting. She tries to keep it light to keep the mask on.

“I remember your father; tall, strong. He could fix anything. I never had to call a plumber or something. You always looked up to him.”

“I still do,” Markus says, taking some deep breaths. “Even if he’s no longer here.”

The mention of his father darkens the room again.

“I’m done eating,” he says, standing. “Thanks, Mom.”
He carries his plate to the sink, leaves the kitchen, then turns back.
He’s forgotten something…

The ticket!

which he spots it laying on the table. He picks it up, glances at the numbers, slips it into his pocket, and walks to the living room.

For a moment he just stands there, lost.
“Ah,” he says to himself. “The TV.”

Soon the numbers will be drawn.
Life or death, he thinks. To be or not to be.

He smirks. “But until then — to be.”

The television flickers. His eyes reflect the light.
He watches, barely breathing, like his life is on the line.
Actually, it is.

The first number — right.
The second — right again.
The third — his eyebrow lifts.
The fourth — his heart stumbles.
The fifth — his whole body tingles.
The last — fits.

All the numbers match with the ones written on the ticket.

He’s won!!

“Fuck that balcony!” he yells.

Tears pour down his face.
This is it, this is the moment that washes everything clean.

But behind the euphoria, patient and merciless, reality overwhelms him.

He sees it all again: his wife, his son, the eyes that stopped trusting him.
He’d risked everything for the rush.

The suffering he caused his family, the look in his son’s eyes as he had to leave their house.
His wife yes, she left him, and she was right to do that.

He put them both in danger.
He risked their family’s well-being just to keep his vice alive, his vice that didn’t care, that didn’t play fair.
It ripped his life apart and led him to destruction.

This moment can give him a second chance to make up with his wife and kid.
The vice had eaten him alive.

But now, now everything will be all right.

Now I can fix it, he thinks. Now everything will be all right. I beat it. I fought it, and I won.
Money could solve all my problems, he says to himself, still sitting on the sofa.

He tries to stand, but his body feels heavy.
A ringing fills his ears.
Pain flashes through his arm.
His chest tightens.

The world narrows to a tunnel of blur; he can barely see the room, the ticket even less.

The ticket slips from his hand, but his fingers close around it again, rigid and white.
He feels his wife’s warmth, hears his son’s laughter, and then nothing.

His mother hears his shout and rushes in.
She calls his name, touches his face, but he’s already too far away, rushing down that tunnel before his eyes.

Everything fades.
After a few short breaths, his chest relaxes after one last exhale.

He lies on the floor, the winning ticket clenched in his hand.

His mother stares at the ticket for a long moment, glances at the TV, then whispers almost to herself:

“Jackpot.”

A.O. Homorodean

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