Lady Luck

Jerry, you dumb bastard! You dumb fucking bastard! You lost the ticket. You lost the fucking ticket! Four and a half million pounds sitting on those little numbers that you picked and you lost the fucking ticket. Well, there you go, Jerry, you’re penniless; you’re destined to remain penniless and that’s all you have ever fucking deserved! Go to the pub and drown it out. There’s nothing else to do. If you were a better man you’d find another way to deal with it, but you’re not. Well done Jerry! Here we go again. It’ll be just you and the bottle, forever. You had your out, but you had to go and throw it away. That ticket is gone and there is nothing else. Nothing. Fuck. Oh Jerry, how did it come to this? You are a stupid son of a bitch. God damn you Jerry, when will you learn? When will you fucking learn? What’s left now, eh Jerry? Stare into oblivion. Stare into oblivion and smile that greasy bent-toothed smile of yours.

* * *

Drowned out by liquor-strained breathing, the key scratched the lock three times before it eventually penetrated. The door swung open heavily on its old hinges, scraping against the stained carpet. There he stood, swaying in the doorway, desperately trying to gather himself together. Inhaling deeply and scrunching his eyes tightly shut he prepared himself for the challenge of making that first step into the flat and he prayed to some kind of forgotten and lost lord of faith that he wouldn’t suddenly and drastically stagger left or right into a table or a wall and wake those who managed to sleep nearby. Boldly gathering himself, he slowly moved forward – one boot in front of the other – towards his bedroom. The front door remained lifeless and open, like a mouth gaping wide with shock. He didn’t care. His mind was now firmly focussed on much more important matters.

* * *

With the morning came the sunshine that burnt bright red through his tortured eyelids. Peeling them apart he allowed the world to enter his hung-over soul, through bloodshot eyes, and felt the agony of his brain swollen to the point where it was crushing, cracking and expanding his skull. He felt good, though. Last time he went on a proper drinking binge he passed out at the top of the stairs that led to his apartment and woke up at the bottom, having managed to somehow crack two ribs and sprain his wrist in the process.

Now, with remnants of alcohol still surging through his veins his self-awareness was at a minimum. He pictured himself floating mid-air. Drifting, languidly between the walls, three feet above the bed – with its sheets spread out haphazardly across the mattress as if they had not been touched in days – his mind wandered and stretched through the haze of memories from the night before, trying desperately to piece every action and moment together into a comprehendible and linear stream of events.

Then it finally started to slip into focus. He saw it pan out in his mind and he desperately refused to believe the images scarring his memory. He had made a simple, stupid mistake and reacted to it in the worst way imaginable. He didn’t want to think about it. He had drunk enough to sleep for days and never wanted to remember the horrors he had experienced. Four and a half million pounds had vanished from his hand and from his pocket. Reeling from everything and drunk as Hell he could sleep, semi-satisfied – or just passed out – in his bed.

Well – fuck it all – despite his best efforts he remembered what had happened. Not quite every gory detail, but enough to satisfy his sick lust to do something about it. Rousing from the bed he reached out for the near-empty bottle of cheap bourbon and splashed its remnants into the chipped wine glass that sat beside it. Sitting up and swallowing it whole he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and cradled his face in his drink-sweaty palms. He reeled back, wincing in pain. His left cheek was bruised and swollen. He had nearly forgotten that part of the evening. There were three of them and they were young, cock-sure and looking for trouble. Nobody cuts in front of Jerry Slim when he’s in line at the bar and then gets lippy about it. He was a bit bruised but they were bleeding. He was pretty sure one of them spent last night in a hospital bed and he couldn’t care less. Guilt was one of the many human emotions Jerry never learned.

Rubbing his blood shot eyes raw he looked towards the window and let out a gurgling sigh and muttered under his breath, “You’re too old for this shit.” He summed up his options and contemplated what it was exactly that he needed to do. Reaching under the pillow he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and, removing the last one, stood up slowly and ventured towards the kitchen to use the hob as a lighter. It was no surprise that he lost his lucky lighter at the same time that he lost the ticket.

With his cigarette hanging from his mouth, he yanked open the freezer door to get some ice for his cheek. Sliding out the ice tray he noticed a flash of pink flutter toward the floor. Slowly crouching down he grasped the crumpled piece of paper in his hand and carefully unfolded it. Picking out the lighter from amongst the ice cubes, he noticed how cold everything felt in his hand. He sparked the lighter and the flame erupted, setting fire to the white stick hanging from his mouth. “Jerry, you lucky bastard! You lucky fucking bastard!”