King of Hearts

I heaved, leaning heavily into the basin, white-knuckled fingers gripping the edge of the chipped counter top. Taking slow deep breaths, I raised my ashen face to the mirror and splashed it with cold water. Unforgiving eyes stared back at me, giving pause for reflection. Somewhere in their vacant desolation, within faint traces of cognition, I saw myself once more.

A silent thought pushed through the veil.

Just walk away, Stan... walk away...

I hesitated. Could I? Was it that simple?

And then... another voice... louder, more errant.

You're in too deep! You're never getting out! You've slipped too far... too far...

Frustration got the better of me and seconds later I found myself picking glass fragments from the cuts in my now unfurled hands, before wrapping them clumsily in toilet tissue to stem the ferrous flow - my lack of control, once again, misdirected and abused. A parting glance at the damaged mirror revealed a broken man barely visible between the cracks - a fragmented image, incapable of being restored.

How had I hit rock bottom? I wondered. When was it that I had let my soul slip away, be consumed in the quagmire of earthly pleasure and temptation? At this point, it did not appear to matter. The solution was not as simple as it appeared...

I would need to find another foil for my reflection or learn to live with the cracks.

Returning to my seat, I cast a woeful glance at my dwindling pot. The odds appeared increasingly stacked against me. It was clear we had a shark at the table, and he had been luring us in all evening. I should have cashed out long ago, but addiction is a hard habit to break.

The cards hit the cloth and I slid mine towards me, raising the front edge just sufficiently to reveal my hand. My eyes shifted from player to player, seeking out their tells.

Is this spot taken?

The words skirted the periphery of my conscious mind.

I was more focused on what the other players were doing: with their hands, their eyes, their cards... these little things make a big difference in a game of Poker.

The question repeated, jarring me from deep concentration.

I looked up to see a young man with olive skin and dark curls, wearing tailored jeans and an open-necked crisp white collared shirt. Standing just a few feet away, his hands draped casually over a blue velvet high-backed chair, he seemed blissfully unaware of his unwelcome intrusion.

Can I help you?

I growled.

Usually, an interruption like this, mid-hand, was frowned upon. Then again, I was not used to polite interjections at the table, either. He smiled, his eyes bright and expressive, and gestured again to the chair in front of him.

I was wondering if there was a place available at the table.

I sighed, and motioned for him to sit. The space had been vacated just a few rounds before; the weak hands being shaken at an alarming rate. I was almost a casualty myself. He slid in beside me, the ice clinking against the sides of his near-empty glass as he set it down. For just a moment, I wondered what his poison might be...

I nodded and turned my attention back to my cards. Texas Holdem was a serious affair requiring acute concentration. Dipping my head I stared long and hard over the rim of my glasses, contemplating my next move. At this point, I felt more than a little lost.

Damn it! Sevens over deuces... The worst hand in poker! It seemed impossible! But once again, I had nothing! Was it just bad luck, or poor execution? I had to wonder - when the devil's hand is dealt, does true choice become obsolete?

But a good artisan never blames his tools, right?

If I knew how to play the game well, then surely it would not matter what cards I held. After all, it was possible to win with the worst cards, but the right face. And just once, I really wanted to win... I needed to win. But who was I kidding? I had an awful poker face, and I seldom bluffed. I almost always left things to chance. And with this hand, I had no chance! There had to be a better way to make the most of the cards I had been dealt.

The name's David, by the way.

I wondered if I should pay attention to the pricking down the nape of my neck. He seemed innocent enough, but he was still talking to me. I shot him a quick glance. He grinned broadly, right hand outstretched.

Stan.

I replied, unflinching, not willing to relinquish more.

He withdrew his hand sheepishly.

David LeBerger, pleased to meet you.

David Bleh Bleh Bleh... was all I heard... before folding my hand.

The waitrons came around with drinks on trays... a convenience designed to keep you playing, spending, and losing... control.

I reached for a drink off the tray and looked at David.

Another drink? I ventured.

I'll take a water, thanks!

he replied.

That put me on my guard. The guys who drank water were usually trying to remain sober for a reason. It allowed them to take advantage of the less experienced players.

I returned my double whiskey on the rocks to the tray and asked for two waters to be delivered to the table instead.

I've been watching you play... and you're not going to succeed like that.

Who the heck is this guy? Is he trying to get inside my head or does he actually think he's going to give me some advice here? I could not figure him out.

David leaned in and whispered...

If you want something badly enough, you have to learn to go all in.

A few rounds later, I found favour with the Poker gods: Ace and Queen in hand... the matching Ten on the flop.

The paradoxical truth? I had a strong hand but I also had nothing but an Ace-high if it did not come through for me on the turn. It did... but seemingly, the Jack of Hearts helped the others too.

Everyone went all in... and so did I! My cards were on the table. I clasped my hands and bowed my head, bargaining... my entire life riding on a single prayer.

And then the King of Hearts rose on the river. A Royal Flush. Unbeatable.
I felt like I was walking on water.

I wrapped my arms around the dirty stack of chips and drew them toward me. $99k in the pot... and it was all mine.

David tapped me on the shoulder as he rose from his chair.

Nice win! I'm heading off now...

But you've only played a few rounds?

It was enough...

he smiled.

And Stan, you don't really need all this...

he gestured, sweeping his hand over the table, the chips, the waitrons serving doubles on the turn.

Fiddling with a silver chain that had slipped between the buttons of his shirt, he continued,

It's ok to follow the crowd you know. Nothing wrong with that! Just learn to flock with the right people.

My eyes were drawn to the pendant on the chain. I had not noticed it before now; the familiar star around his neck. And then I looked back at the table watching the next hand being dealt, the drinks being thrown back, the dirty money changing hands, and I saw it for what it was...

Shameless iniquity - a toxic smog permeating character and heart... slowly asphyxiating - a conscious and corrupt lodestone pulling against the moral compass in the arid and barren wasteland of lost humanity. And I had allowed myself to be led off course by it.

Life did not have to be a gamble. And I knew it. Chasing after the wrong king was making me ill. My life could be restored. A window to my soul opened. I smiled at the irony: the king of hearts was about to rescue me twice in one evening. Sometimes you just need to flip the narrative or have it flipped for you.

As David stepped away from the game, I remembered what he had said earlier. I got up, leaving my stack on the table, and followed him out the door.

I walked tall.

I did not look back.

I was all in.

This is my entry to the Ink Well fiction prompt:: soul.

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