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I've had a brief Buckshot Roulette phase in which I made an OC, particularly because I like the Doctor/Defib guy a lot (somehow).. Still, the character I made is really fun to write, so I may continue this.. Until where? Who knows! 27/01/2025
Throbbing like a nagging headache, as lively as ever. The incessant uns uns uns of the rave never left my head, never. I've had this continuous ache for months; Years, maybe. People danced and danced like this was a temporary matter, but no. It wasn't, not for me. Every night, that same throb remained within the bounds of my head, my mind. The same repetitive motions of rejection, replacement, and my favourite; the shot. The piercing sound in contrast to my ever-so-dull psyche. It fills the empty contents of my skull with the illusion of activity, of thought. My brain, that bundle of joy, it had been called many things. Plenty of words I wouldn't have in me to repeat, such unpleasantries! I have manners, you know? Yet, not one of those words had been accurate. I, of course, know exactly the one to describe what many define me for: Simple. Wired in a particular way that made me good at exactly that; simplicity. Have you ever played an uncomplicated game? Memory, for example. You flip a card just to forget what you saw the moment before? It's such a trivial flaw of the human mind. One that makes you go "Dang!", smacking yourself for the head before laughing it off. It doesn't define your life, no. But it does mine. I've never forgotten a flipped card, and I never will. My mind is blank, ready to be filled with the life of the game. "Slow", that's what I've been called plenty throughout my time. It's wrong, factually untrue. Put me before a Rubik's cube, Snake, or Minesweeper, anything with little rules, a goal, but plenty of opportunity, I'd win. And I'd do it again, and again, and I'd win quicker, better. This is my purpose. Then, I came across Buckshot Roulette. And that statement, my purpose, became true. A few live shells in, the game just clicked. I suppose in my development, 70 percent of my nerves went straight to my eyes, intentional? Maybe. The shells? I saw those shells, yes, every one of them. The order of blanks and lives vividly displayed, replayed to me despite the Dealer's blind eyes, despite the secretively swift handling of the bullet in his palm. I met his unreturned gaze. And I smiled, for the first time in a long, long time. I haven't stopped smiling, since. A one-time curiosity turned to days of play, days which counted up to weeks. I made an impression, stood before the man without a desire for anything tangible, a simple need for the game, JUST the game. The Dealer grew a certain fondness for me, that much was clear. But with my persistent appearances, his precious time was.. Well, not wasted on ME per se. But wasted, still. And the gaze in my eyes told him something that continues to go unsaid, something that needn't be said: I wasn't leaving. That's when a decision was made, a first since my arrival, and a final addition since: A burner phone, with me on the receiving end. Similar to the spyglass the user would be informed of the contents of a shell, the difference? It was the contents of anything BUT the current shell. Instead, me personally, yours truly, would be able to expose the identity of any shell of my choice. An elegant improvement: Interesting, cheap, and most of all: simple. Enough to make one smile. I met my own gaze in the reflection of the mirror. Despite it all; that toothy grin. Continuous, constant. The corners of my mouth tingled in strained protest. But satisfaction defined my being, my face stubbornly set in place. I've grown out of the need to do much thinking for this role. Still, the smile remained. I wasn't bored, no, far from. A purpose is not something just anyone could find, and this was mine. Buckshot Roulette, a mold in the ecosystem of my being, my identity. But my mind was empty, as it usually was. And the selfishness of my being desired more, something worth figuring out: A puzzle, a game. With my luck, always so present, a situation perfectly suitable to ease this needless yearning occurred. I learned today that people have their own games they play: Deceiving, tricking, running, pleading. It was to no avail, the Dealer was brighter than the average player. And it had no such sentimentalities to shed a tear for a tear. But the most common of all had to be a fight. Kicking, biting, screaming, a wild animal display, an uncoordinated play. Nothing that affected the man beyond the table. But today, blood was shed. My colleague is a Doctor, THE Doctor. It's his nickname, a boring one. I rather call him the Defibrillator, Defib, the item, the role assigned to him. That was all he was. Loyally stood by my side to chime in with his purpose if so needed, and I with mine. We hadn't exchanged many words, a silent understanding that we were elements of a game. Nothing more, nothing less. An element to keep the disturbed display beyond the door dragged on until it snapped. But today my colleague did something no doctor should do: He bled. His previously straight nose now crooked, painted with a streak of red down to his chin. And there I stood, watching. The juvenile outburst of the offender left a mess. He wouldn't get his weary body to clean it, rather he dragged it back to the dealer's room. He had a face I recognized, arrogant, aggressive. Emotions I knew, with frustration to add, of course. But no, this man was one I knew personally, and these adjectives defined him. I offered him my usual grin and a friendly encouraging pat on the back. He gave me a smirk, confident. He was a grab-it-all; Wanting, needing more and more, and luck humoured him endlessly so. It wasn't until today I realized how grand my play in this game could be. I watched as he was consumed by his own game, as he pushed his body to the edge of what it could bear. His trembling hand reached, scared, tormented, weak. His fingers slammed down, wrapping around the plastic frame of the cheap device he had heavily relied on the entirety of the game, with hints less-than-helpful. But desperation makes one stupid, no? So even now, he put it to his ear. I could see it in his eyes, he was at his limit. And I'd humour him no more. As my phone buzzed, I picked up. Silence; Long, unbearable silence. Then, I spoke. "How unfortunate." I breathed with a snicker and hung up. What defined him had never been so prominent, He couldn't have made it more obvious. He wanted to run, he wanted to scream, he wanted to fight. But he couldn't. A 50/50 chance, yet, he felt cocky, certain. He aimed it at himself, He'd have the last laugh. That's what he must've thought. I mouthed 'Pang' before the shot had been fired, but the echoed cackle of fate followed before my lips were sealed. He became the mess he had left, how ironic. My colleague went back to work, his talents couldn't mean anything to a man the world itself mocked for his stupidity. He didn't care, of course; Rather a jab to his pride than another bruise. With a sigh, he glanced at me. My observant presence behind him was unusual, I widened my smile to assure it was of no ill intent. It was met with a raised brow. And that was that. I returned to a good old-fashioned game of Snake on my loyal companion: My phone. Little did I know this game hadn't come to an end. "It's your lucky day, colleague." He settled beside me against the railing of the catwalk. Before I could even think of a response, I found myself with a cigarette between already occupied fingers. I met his gaze as he lit it, friendly. Was this an act of companionship? A 'thank you"? Or something else entirely? I didn't know, but it was an interesting move. I couldn't help but huff, of amusement perhaps? A swift movement flipped my phone shut, and I placed the offering between my lips. Bitter, nasty, addictive. That was my first taste of 'friendship'. It took everything in me not to bark the contents out of my system, my lungs unused to the presence of smoke and tobacco. 
Other character is from my friend Johnny! | |
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