Last Words

Sarah gambled.  She played video poker and the ponies at the track.  She knew the odds of blackjack if she split a pair of face cards.  She’d played the office football pool–until she was fired for taking one too many three-hour lunches at the casino.  She gambled when she had money and, on credit, when she was broke–before she’d maxed out her credit cards and the debt collectors started dogging her steps.  She gambled when she was happy and she gambled when she was miserable–which was increasingly often.

Now, standing under the buzzing fluorescent lights of the convenience store, rainwater dripping from her hair onto the worn linoleum floor, Sarah clutched three crumpled dollars.  It was everything she had left.

She mulled over the offerings of the snack aisle.  Before entering the store, Sarah had told herself that she’d just get a candy bar, or maybe some chips–something to quell her gnawing hunger…

But inevitably, her eyes were soon perusing the scratch-off tickets behind the counter.  Rows of them, promising hope, a way out.  The bold colors pulsed in the harsh light of the store.

They were calling to her.

Sarah had promised herself she was done.  She’d promised her boyfriend–who was at the end of his frayed rope–that she was done.  She’d even promised the crowd at a 12-Step group for gambling addicts that she was done.  She’d sworn to anyone and everyone that she wouldn’t place another bet.

But the craving, the intoxicating whisper of what if?, was too strong.  It always was.  Her rent money had vanished into scratchers last month, then this month, and now the eviction notice lurked in her purse like a silent accuser.

She stared at the bills in her hand.  Her stomach let loose another complaining rumble.

It had come down to this: food…or a scratch ticket with the iffy chance of a payoff.

She knew this was insane.  A three-dollar bet wouldn’t fix her life, but it could–maybe–turn into something more.

The cashier, a weary man with graying hair and a nametag that read, “Ray,” watched her approach.  His eyes narrowed slightly when he saw the crumpled bills in her hand.  Sarah had been here before–too many times.  Ray had sold her scratch tickets on good days and bad.  More bad days recently.

She slid the three dollars across the counter.  “One PrizeWords, please.”

Ray hesitated, fingers hovering just above the tickets.  The hesitation sent a flush of heat to Sarah’s cheeks.  She shifted on her feet, suddenly aware of how pathetic she must look–soaked from the icy rain, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, down to her last few desperate dollars.

“You sure about this?” Ray asked, his voice low, as if he were afraid to offend her.

The question stung.  Sarah was reminded of a bartender who’d cut her off one bitter night while she’d been nursing her losses with bourbon.

Sarah swallowed hard.  “I’m sure,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

Ray let out a small sigh before sliding the ticket across the counter.  “Good luck,” he muttered, sounding more resigned than hopeful.

Sarah bolted out of the store, the freezing rain sticking her cheeks like needles, clutching the ticket like a talisman.  The wind pushed against her as she hurried across the street to a covered bus stop, as if trying to dissuade her from her intentions.

The metal bench chilled her to the bone.  She dug in her tattered pocket for a coin, her hand returning with a glittering new nickel.

Sarah hoped the shine of the coin was a good sign.

The rules of the game were simple: scratch off letters, match them to the crossword grid printed on the ticket.  The more complete words she found, the bigger the prize.  If she uncovered seven or more words, she’d win.  Maybe not enough to save her from eviction, but it would certainly shift her mood, pushing back the gloom which stalked her lately–the gloom that murmured, LOSER.

Sarah’s first furtive scratches revealed the letters: A, T, E, H, F, D, and B. She quickly uncovered a few words: “HATE, FATE, DEBT.”

How fitting, she thought ruefully.

Her hand laboring faster, Sarah scratched off more letters, including the consonants R and G and the vowels O and U.  The next words came into view: “REGRET” and “FEAR.”

She scrutinized the crossword grid and realized she could scratch off another word: “DEATH.”

Her pulse quickened–and not only because she was one word away from winning.

Sarah scratched the last space.  The letter “Y” appeared.  Slowly, a word formed at the bottom of the grid: “YOUR.”

Then, the words seemed to swirl on the card.  Before Sarah’s unbelieving gaze, they now spelled out: “YOUR DEATH.”

A shiver thrilled through her.  The ticket was mocking her, even threatening her.

But Sarah’s sense of foreboding faded as she re-counted the words she’d uncovered: Seven.  A winner!

Sarah hustled across the empty street and marched proudly back into the store.  “Can you cash a hundred-dollar winner?” she asked.

Ray looked up from a magazine he was reading, the latest issue of Car & Driver.

“Sure,” he said, accepting the ticket and running it under the lottery ticket scanner.

The scanner buzzed.

“Sorry,” Ray intoned, handing the ticket back to Sarah.

Her eyes were wide with disbelief.  “But I was sure…,” she protested, holding the ticket close to her face.

The words she’d seen before, all seven of them, were gone.  The ticket was an obvious loser.

Sarah shuffled out of the store, head down, her shoulders slumped.  Outside, her face was soon cold and wet, dripping with raindrops which coalesced with her tears.

She stuffed the ticket in her pocket and made her lonely way home.  Her mind spun with thoughts, baffled at how a dud ticket could have appeared to be a sure winner.

She was so preoccupied–with the rain, with her plight, with her despair–that she didn’t hear the car behind her, its distance closing fast.