Sharing some writing today…

Since I’ve been having a few rough weeks, I figured I’d give y’all a sample of my writing. I can’t remember exactly when I wrote this… just that I was in quite the mood when I did. I was feeling the pressure of working 72 hour weeks and still barely being able to make it, when I wondered what it would be like to win the lottery (who hasn’t wondered?).

The idea that someone could win the lottery when their life was spiraling down the toilet hooked my brain, so I decided to write about it. What follows, is the rumination of someone down on their luck… and a whole bunch of wishful thinking.

*WARNING* There’s some language in here… but it very much enhances the mood of the story.

Loser by Mike Burton

“Two.” The number cut through the din of the restaurant.

That’s how old Marcus is. Sam closed her eyes against the world. He was still here.

“Are you even listening to me, Sam?” Mark loomed over her. He liked to loom.

“Twenty one.” Sam’s eyes dropped for a second.

I was twenty one when I met Mark. Still in college. She winced. Before he made me quit.

“You stupid bitch!” Mark slammed his hand against the table, trying to shake her resolve.

I’m not going to reply. Don’t answer him.

“Six.” Sam’s pulse quickened even more than it was already.

Six long years. Sam blinked back the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. There were good times. But there were way too many bad.

“You fucking cunt! Look at me when I’m talking to you.” He seemed oblivious to the dirty looks and stares coming from the rest of the restaurant.

Thank god mom’s watching Marcus tonight. Sam cracked an eye open. Mark’s face was red with rage.

“Are you even listening to me, you stupid cunt?” His voice lowered into a threatening growl. He loved to use that word to verbally assault her.

“Twenty five.” Sam was still amazed at the clarity of the numbers.

That’s how old Mark was when we first met. He was so handsome and charismatic. Sam had to fight back the revulsion. It only took him two months before he first hit me. Her anger was rising to meet his, but she kept her mouth shut.

“You’re nothing.” Mark sneered, a frothy bit of spittle appearing at the corner of his downturned lips.

I’ve heard that so many times from you, she sneered back in her head. At one time, I actually believed you.

“I’m going to file for custody of Marcus,” his grin was full of malice, “since you won’t be able to support him.”

He’s right. Her brain seemed to be fighting against her, the self-doubt creeping in. How am I supposed to get a job after not working for so long? How am I going to afford day-care? How am I going to afford a car? Sam clenched down, forcing her mind to focus on the numbers again.

“Are you going to fucking cry?” Mark was in the thick of his rage now. He slammed his palm against the table top, making her jump again.

“Three.” It was like the sound of a knife handle rapping on the edge of a wine glass.

Three months since he hit me last. Sam kept waiting for the sharp slap across her face that would be the only warning she would get before the next beating would begin. Apparently, jail wasn’t any kind of deterrent.

“You are the stupidest piece of shit to ever walk this earth.” Mark’s voice carried across the heads of the other people eating in the place. Sam noticed that the majority were senior citizens. “I can’t believe I ever wasted any time on your worthless ass.”

“Seventeen.” A sigh escaped Sam’s lips. There it was, like the slamming of a prison door.

Exactly the amount of days it’s been since the final divorce decree. Sam’s eyebrows shot up of their own accord. Her pulse quickened yet again. Only two and a half weeks for this divorced fool to come back to start wailing on me again. In public, no less. She lifted her head and smiled at him. She knew it would set him off.

“What are you smiling at, bitch?” Sam glanced down at the slip of paper pinched tightly between her thumb and forefinger.

“I’m smiling at a loser.” The sting of the slap was welcome. The gasp of the witnesses confirming the severity of it. It woke her up. Stoked the fire burning inside. Sam noticed the police officer walking in the front door of the restaurant and her smile widened.

“You fucking cunt.” The last word was punctuated by Mark’s fist slamming into the side of her head. It hurt, but not as much as she thought it would. She could feel a rivulet of blood trickling down the side of her neck, but she didn’t mind.

A small chuckle escaped her. “Goodbye, Mark.” Sam stood, her knees a bit weak, and the room spinning slightly.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Mark reached out to grab her, but a hand suddenly appeared on his arm. There was a sharp sound in the air… multiple rapid clicks. Mark looked down to see a metal bracelet appear around his outreached wrist. “What the…?” His words were cut off with a sharp squeak of pain as his arm was twisted behind his back. The cop deftly whipped his other arm around and locked it in place with the other end of the handcuffs.

Sam sat back down, suddenly light-headed. “Thank you, sir.” She managed to breathe. Mark was panting and fighting against the man holding him tightly. She glared at her ex husband. “I’m pressing charges for assault and battery, Mark.” He stopped struggling.

“You can’t do that.”

“I can, and I will.” The anger burning inside flared up, making her headache recede slightly. “I’m also getting a restraining order and a gun.” Mark laughed.

“You can’t even afford this meal.” He spat on her plate, ruining whatever was left of her meager lunch, but she wasn’t hungry any more. Sam lifted the paper she had been holding tightly for the last hour.

“I can, because I just won the lottery.” Mark stared at her lottery ticket as the television mounted in the corner of the restaurant suddenly got louder.

“Those winning numbers again are: Two, twenty one, six, twenty five, and three.” The woman on the screen had a grin similar to the one on Sam’s face, but Sam’s was much more genuine. “And the winning bonus ball is seventeen.” Mark’s face sank as he picked out the matching numbers on his ex wife’s ticket.