Monthly Fiction - “The fourth spin”
Casino smelled like rusty coins, and old ashtrays. He sat down and put his last savings on a four. Dealer looked briefly at the man, and whispered: “he’s crazy”. No one bets on four. Not in Japan. Not if you’ve buried people.
Dealer spins the wheel.
The man closes his eyes. He hears the ball spinning, jumping, clattering like teeth in a skull. Until the noise stops. He opens his eyes and looks at the roulette. “Four” - says the dealer, and slides the winnings across the table. The man gets up without a word, and briefly leaves.
The dealer looks around, and sees money tossed back and forth between the dreamers and their executioners. He looks at his watch. The numbers are gleaming under the blinding lamp. It's 4:00am. His shift finished.
He puts on his coat and he walks home. The streets are both clean and dirty at the same time. There is a place where the city murmur ends, and the quietness of the park starts. Startled, he sees a man with his head down throwing coins into an old stone well covered in moss. He recognises that it is the same man who just won. He stops and observes the man who is slowly throwing his coins into a well. One by one.
The man keeps tossing coins, slowly and deliberately, as if he was paying a debt.
Each coin lands with a hollow, muffled splash. As the last rusty coin leaves the man’s hand, the moss vaguely shines in the moonlight. The man stares down the well with his empty hands for a while and again, leaves.
He continues to do so for the next four days. Same routine, same bets. Until on the fourth day he loses. The man looks straight into the dealer’s eyes. Like a deer looks into oncoming traffic. He gets up, leaves.
He wasn’t seen by the well that day. In fact he never came back.
Some losses cannot be won back. Some debts are absolute.