Rakuli

It was no surprise that I could not see anything other than bloodshot eyes attached to silhouettes; there was no ventilation in the room and the one tungsten globe in the corner was not enough to light the haze formed from nine people smoking heavily for several hours.

The room was silent except for the occasional shuffling of card on card or the click of a lighter as yet another cigarette was lit. The action on the table reached me and I checked with a crisp tap; I was the first player to act and my hand was not strong. I wanted to analyse my shadowy opponents as they played their cards in turn.

Participation had been tentative most of the night but the stakes were now approaching a point where it was all or nothing. My opponents’s aggressive betting kept nothing of their card strength a secret but their willingness to throw everything at each hand had put me on edge.

The player to my left lead out with a heartbreak and the bet was instantly called by everyone around the table. I was left with little choice but to join them, so I put my heartbreak out there for all to see.

The next round of betting opened immediately with an addiction, raised just as quickly to a relapse. My hand had improved slightly yet I was not ready to go on the offensive, so I eased my relapse onto the table hoping to reach a showdown with no further cost. The silhouette to my left sat silent and motionless for a time before raising to depression and self loathing. Tension filled the room as nine minds realised they had invested more than they could afford to lose.

By rights the decisions should have taken longer, the cost of playing on should have given pause, however, I watched stunned as the pot was raised to death, self-harm, abuse and combinations with multiples of the stakes already wagered. 

The action landed on me once more and I looked at the pot, a pistol with a single bullet loaded, and I wondered if I could afford to call, wondered if I could afford to win.

I folded.