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One in Six

One in Six

By Jn Sharma Published 2 years ago 5 min read
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One in Six
Photo by Kenny Xie on Unsplash

Charmaine bites the bell, and her breath catches her throat. You run the risk of looking at the table — perhaps one of them heard it?

You have at least minutes.

Chances were good at first. Five of the six chances of winning the winner seemed close to certain when registering for the previous winter; even the full year it had taken him to come back helped him increase his sense of expectation. When he looked at the program at a young age the prize — a council apartment, a government factory job, a long-term pension pledge — seemed insignificant compared to the stake, but now Charmaine understands why there is no shortage. like his love of gambling, nothing left them a chance for a better life.

Anyone on the other hand looks at his teammates. They sit around a round table, six in all, none of them older than thirty. The company gets old volunteers, you know, but anyone is rarely considered attractive enough at Poorhouse after more than a few years on the streets. Although the style of the show and its shelter are imaginative, the rich food, soft beds, and six clean linens found last week is the best. The pants are kept full of alcohol, and there are plenty of private rooms where the couple can sneak out, unnoticed by everyone except the ubiquitous cameras. Producers love when two competitors come together. It makes the future very interesting.

Magid looks at him. When their eyes meet, she releases her quick, secret smile, and she can't help but smile back. He did not intend to approach any of them, but his extraordinary warmth and kindness were long gone after both of you. The night before, with so much talk that even the microphone could not hold it, they had planned a future that they would build together, after the end of the race, after their prize contests.

"But what if one of us is one of the six?" he had asked.

"What are the opportunities?" He loves the simple assurance of his word, that is, the complete conviction that makes everything he says seem like a promise from God. "And if so, we've got each other's backs, haven't we?"

Now the bullet is in his mouth, and the cameras are watching.

Silver cutlery cuts the bones of china. The rules in this section are clear; contestants should sit down until all the fat is consumed until the last crumb, dried grape, and smear of custard. The pudding is a joke, a reference to an ancient tradition where one dinner guest bit a sixpence fortune that promised good luck and long life. The surprise baked in this pudding means the opposite.

Charmaine puts a bullet in the back of her mouth, the urge to go up and down her throat again due to the unhealthy taste of brandy cream.

Magid has finished her part, and she points her bowl at the camera to show that it is empty. Charmaine can visualize an audience enjoying themselves on their TV shows. If this were a celebrity competition Magid would have made sure to win - watch classes love his cock-boosting style almost as a last resort.

One of the other women, Jazz, is about to finish, and Charmaine looks around the room, measuring the distances between each of them and counting, how quickly she can put her hand on one of the hanging weapons in the restaurant. the walls. Charmaine wonders how she will feel the ax as it separates the skull from her head, the crowbar as it is attached to the base of the eyes, a knife as it pierces between her ribs. His death, however, begins, and will end, as has always been the case at Poorhouse - the five contestants stand in a circle in sixth place, feet finishing the work their hands have started.

"Let's finish this," said Jazz, with all the vessels empty. "'Fess up. Who's holding the bullet?"

"How do we know you don't know?" Said Magid.

Jazz opens his empty mouth with wide yaw. "You know that way. Who's next?"

The bullet is sitting on Charmaine's tongue, as hard as a case.

Magid smiles, and a glimmer of metal appears in her mouth. Charmaine hears the Jazz breathing heavily - caught in a moment of silence, standing in the eye of the storm. Iron is nothing more than an old amalgam that fills one of Magid's dogs, Charmaine knows, and that you will just have to take a good look at the suspicions from him.

"She is," said Charmaine, pointing. "You got it."

Jazz is fast. In another move he emerges from his chair, a hand picking up a cricket bat on the wall behind him and hitting it on the table. Magid backs away in shock but the others are ready for her. One holds her back; the second one throws a punch in the face. Blood spurted from his nose, and his eyes focused on Charmaine.

"Char"

He slips an empty wine bottle into his mouth, the base of which is a heavy glass that breaks the names of blood and teeth. He crouched down, war broke out against him.

It ends at the bottom. It always is.

"Are you all right, Char?" A bloody jazz hand is on his shoulder. "Guys, you were close, yes?"

Charmaine nodded. "I need to say goodbye."

When the words ring around the metal in his mouth no one seems to care.

He bent down to kiss Magid's bruised lips, the bullet coming out of his mouth into his breath.

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