"Clair de Lune"
Bill sat bolt upright in bed, sweating profusely and desperately gasping for the air that had been sucked out of his lungs by the nightmare.
He had dreamed of his own hand drawing the dotted slip out of the accursed black box for decades. . . since he was old enough to truly understand the meaning behind it. For years he had thought of it as a meaningless childhood game; only when he turned nine, and had to stone his best friend, did he start to fear the lottery.
He shook in the chill of the cool, night air and longed to go and shut the window. . . But he stayed where he was, glaring down at his hands and wondering why he hadn't washed the dirt off of them from that afternoon. Maybe it was just the moonlight playing tricks on him, but he could've sworn they were covered in blood.
Terrified by the illusion, he turned to wake Tessie- she was always so thoughtful in such situations- but her side of the bed was empty. Her pillow was not dented in the shape of her head, and the coverings she slept with we're cold and untouched. His fingers brushed across the starched white cotton of her pillow. . . when he noticed the feint marks they left behind, he rushed to the bathroom.
The dingy lighting was enough to show him the dried blood trailing up his forearms and staining his wrinkled shirt; he remembered the day's events too vividly. Tessie drawing the dot. . . tears burning his throat. . . Carrying her mangled, lifeless body back home and burying her.
Nancy stood in the hallway behind him, watching him sob, and then slowly put her arms around him. "Better not to dwell on such things, Papa," she said. "Better not to dwell on such things."