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The winning lottery numbers were to be announced this afternoon. Whether or not I go to work would depend on my aunt’s broken radio. Sitting on the floor of my house, which was technically my late aunt’s old ranch house, I fidgeted my die. I shuffled it between my fingers, rubbed it against my palms, rolled inside my fist, but I never dared throw it. It’s just my made up superstition. I thought it might help me stay true to my gift. I heard the clock ticking. Twenty minutes left before the announcement, and I was about to lose my shit. I began walking around in circles, washing my face many times, biting my nails like I was eating it, stomping my feet to no music, only static. My mind, while the clock ticked, grew steadily uneasy. All perception of the physical world was lost, fear was the only reality. As I stood up and aimlessly walked towards the bathroom the billionth time today, my shoulder caught the corner of a wall and my foot slipped on a wet rag. I lost my balance, and all I saw was the broken ceiling as I went. Everything happened so fast, and before I knew it, I was down for the count. The die was knocked out of my palm and rolled on the kitchen floor. I stayed there on the hardwood looking intensely at the die while it danced from number to number, as did my mind. Where will it land? 20? 13? 1? I didn’t want to guess. I had no lucky number to bet on. The die slowly settled to a number, but I quickly turned my head toward the broken ceiling. I’d rather die than look at the die. So I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t be tempted. I saw nothing and heard everything. Despite the cool breeze of autumn, I was sweating like a criminal running from the cops as my lungs lifted and dropped. Breathing became shallow, and mind empty of any thought. The house was silent, only the afternoon birds chirped. In that warm wooden floor I laid on my back motionless, engulfed by the sound of my racing heartbeat. Then suddenly, a hiss in the radio…
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…“1, 34, 8…” the announcer mumbled. “24, 12…” he continued. A loud static, and then, “…10 Congratulations to whoever won. You may claim your prize in the town hall by presenting your ticket and sig—…” I didn’t pay attention to the rest of the broadcast, all became bubble after ten. I stayed hopeful. I clung to the remaining numbers to be announced, as if there was any left. But no matter how patiently I waited, in every passing second, the weight of each failed guess only kicked me down even further. I lost. The announcement sounded more of a countdown to a fallen boxer than anything else. And I was such a cocky boxer. Hop dwindled right in that moment. I stayed flat on the canvas, failing to get back up. I stayed flat under the kitchen sink; tears fled through the sides and clogged my ears. Of course, I knew I didn’t win even without double checking my numbers. I memorized the damned sequence, bet my life on it. I regret everything I said. All that self talk I had earlier, my plans… Italy… all of it was nothing but hallucinations. The fake scenarios where I talked to Elvis would remain fabricated. The dream of a castle on the cloud would forever remain a dream. Damn the die for its limited sides. Damn the old man for giving me false hope. I hated myself for not thinking enough, for not realizing, for being so narrow sighted. A sudden anger boiled in my chest. All I saw was red. I pushed myself up aggressively with clenched fists. But then, the moment that I saw a blurry die, I immediately closed my eyes. I forgot about the die I rolled when I fell earlier, and I have yet to think of a lucky number… any number. I calmed myself thinking there was still hope. That minute of pause gave me the time to think. I realized the lottery was not the only golden pot at the end of the rainbow; there was another labeled casino, and it called my name with flashing rainbow lights. But I had to check if my skill was still there.
“Twelve,” I whispered while I silently prayed for a miracle. This was my last shot for redemption. Once I see that glowing twelve again, I would feel the strength of a hundred bulls, and breathe the sweet orange scent of hope once more. I slowly opened my eyes to see a faded four. Squinting, I looked closely at the die.
“No. No, no, no, no, no!” a whisper which eventually turned into a wail. I refused to believe I was wrong. I commanded the universe, the world, even demanded God for that bloody die to turn on its side and prove me right. But nothing happened. So I grabbed the die furiously, and rolled it. “Twelve!” I shouted. It kept spinning and spinning, like it never wanted to stop. I impatiently smacked the item still with my hand and looked; it was twenty. “Again! Twelve!” I did this again, and again, and again. 17, 4, 11, etc., but twelve never showed itself. I called bullshit. I tried to use my ritual, but still, I failed. I tried again, and again, and again, and the only difference in each attempt was a gradually weakening voice that only grew uncertain in every guess. “Twelve,” I mumbled, for my final attempt. I sat there, cross legged, blanked face, and unmoving. If I guessed this wrong again, I would die working in Crab City. A promise I repeated until the die would stop on its own. I waited patiently this time. The die kept spinning. I grew tired of being angry and honestly, I couldn’t be bothered to hurt myself again by smacking the dice with my already battered hand. I left it as is, but my eyelids felt heavier than ever as time went on. I remained seated, but I drew closer and closer to having forty winks. I rested my eyes, but I maintained my focus on the sound of the spinning die, slowly turning into a clinking of a coin, then, I fell asleep.
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