counting cards

rolling on the red

he's never considered himself lucky. never stood in the mirror and licked his teeth and said, "you, knox, you're fuckin' lucky." but maybe he has told himself this, in some way. when he's woken up in the morning with vomit in his bed, not at the back of his throat. when captain stays by his side, warming him however she can while his body shakes against his abuse. or when he's seaside, watching the water glitter below him, thinking, man, if life isn't beautiful.

and even this—tables curling with smoke, low lights and thin air blurring the nights into days, and hungry, greedy eyes trying to peer deeper than the poker face on the surface—is beautiful.

but he's never considered himself lucky, not when it comes to cards. the world's already given him too much luck, and he's spent it as any other addict would—quickly, and without consequence. so he loses and he loses and he watches his pocket money swirl down the drain, but he doesn't fold, because he's waiting for his cards, although they never come.

and then he's in the bathroom, muttering, "fuck, fuck, fuck," to his reflection, because he's only got a couple of games left before he loses everything.

"it's rigged, you know," someone says. his mind's eye, a passerby? he blinks, squints at the mirror.

jayden cross