Twisted 36

by Shiang

The Courier sits in the silence of the Lucky 38, and thinks over the thirty-six hours it took to bring him there from Goodsprings.

Twisted 36:

The Courier's Run

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The roulette wheel whirled like a too-fast clock. The numbers spun in their twisted dance of thirty-six. Smoke furled up from a wasted cigarette, stubbed out on an empty table. For a moment longer, he watched the circle spin, and then he caught it.

Red, black and white went still.

Six lifted his trembling hands and ran the bloodstained fingers through his hair. There wasn't even the echo of music in here; the silence throbbed in his ears. Adrenaline had left his muscles weak and shaking, and he felt like he was drowning in the weight of memories locked inside this empty casino.

He threw back his head and let out a sharp, broken howl.

The cigarette smoke shuddered in the movement, and ghosts seemed to laugh inside the thin blue-grey stream.

What have I done?

What the fuck have I done?