The scorched mark on the kitchen ceiling served as a constant reminder of John's folly. Not the folly of faulty wiring, or a forgotten gas burner, but the folly of defying a one. A one on a twenty-sided die, to be precise. The die, which he now kept in a small velvet pouch like some unholy relic, dictated his life. He’d learned the hard way that defying its pronouncements was akin to poking a sleeping bear with a very short stick. In this case, the bear was Faith, the actual, literal goddess of chance, and the short stick was his free will.
He glared at the offending die, its pearly white surface mocking him. “One,” he muttered, the word laced with bitterness. “One lousy number. The bane of my existence.” It had started innocently enough. A strange tingling sensation, a voice in his head, not unlike his own inner monologue, but decidedly snarkier. “Feeling lucky, punk?” it had purred. He’d dismissed it as stress, until the coffee machine incident. He'd rolled a one. The voice had warned him. He, in his infinite wisdom, had scoffed. The resulting fireball had singed his eyebrows and taught him a valuable lesson about respecting the whims of cosmic deities.
Now, his mornings began with a ritualistic roll of the die. A five meant lukewarm instant coffee. A twelve, a decent cup from his French press. Anything below a three, and he was better off sticking to water. He’d once rolled a two and attempted toast. The toaster had promptly ejected two slices of flaming bread, narrowly missing his cat, #Schrödinger, who, ironically, seemed to be the only living being unaffected by the curse.
Today, the die had landed on a seven. Oatmeal. Not ideal, but certainly not explosive. He cautiously measured out the oats, his movements slow and deliberate, as if handling nitroglycerin. A sudden sneeze – brought on, no doubt, by the lingering scent of burnt coffee – caused his hand to jerk, spilling half the oats onto the floor. Schrödinger, sensing opportunity, materialized out of thin air and began enthusiastically devouring the spilled grains.
John sighed. “Seven,” he repeated, the word now tinged with weary resignation. "Apparently, seven also means sharing breakfast with a furry, chaos-immune parasite.” He scooped out another portion of oats, adding a mental note to apologize to Faith later. Maybe a small offering of milk and honey? He’d heard goddesses had a sweet tooth.
John spooned the lukewarm oatmeal into his mouth, the taste as bland as his current existence. He glanced at the calendar. Thursday. Normally, Thursday meant poker night with the guys, a chance to unwind, to indulge in some friendly competition, to maybe even win enough to cover next month's rent. Now, Thursday meant rolling the die to determine if he was even allowed to think about poker.
He reached for the velvet pouch. His hand hovered over it, a strange mix of anticipation and dread swirling in his gut. It was a feeling he’d become intimately familiar with over the past few weeks, a feeling he suspected would become his new normal. He took a deep breath and pulled out the die. He rolled it across the table, his eyes glued to its tumbling form. It settled. Four.
Four. What did four mean in the context of poker night? He racked his brain, trying to recall past experiences. A four had once dictated the exact number of chips he was allowed to bet, resulting in a humiliating fold on a winning hand. Another time, a four had meant he could only play with his left hand, which, considering his dominant hand was his right, had led to a spectacularly messy loss and a lifetime ban from the local casino.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
He grabbed his phone and texted his friends: “Game on? Rolling a four. Interpret as you will.”
The replies came quickly.
Mark: “Dude, a four? Are you allowed to even look at a deck of cards?”
Steve: “Four… four what? Fingers? Dollars? Hours of sleep before the game? This curse is getting ridiculous.”
Dave: “Four… four of a kind? Maybe it means you’re guaranteed a winning hand! Come on, John, live a little!”
John stared at the messages, a wry smile tugging at his lips. Live a little. Easy for them to say. They weren't the ones living under the tyrannical rule of a twenty-sided die. He sighed. He had a feeling four didn't bode well. But he couldn't resist the lure of the game, the camaraderie, the slim chance of escaping, however briefly, the suffocating grip of chance.
He grabbed his jacket, pocketing the die, the velvet pouch a comforting weight against his leg. “Alright, Faith,” he muttered. “Let's see what you've got in store for me tonight.”
John arrived at Mark's apartment, the familiar aroma of pizza and stale beer wafting down the hallway. He could hear the boisterous laughter of his friends from inside, a stark contrast to the quiet anxiety churning in his stomach. He hesitated at the door, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He pulled out the die, giving it one last, desperate roll in his palm. Still a four.
He stepped inside. "Gentlemen," he announced, trying to project an air of confidence he didn't feel. "Let the games begin."
The evening started… strangely. Every hand John played seemed to involve a four. Four of a kind, four cards to a flush, four-card straights. It was uncanny, unsettling, and, much to his friends' astonishment, incredibly profitable. He was raking in the chips, his pile growing exponentially with each hand. Mark and Steve exchanged nervous glances, while Dave, ever the optimist, cheered him on.
"See, John?" Dave shouted, slapping him on the back. "Four is your lucky number!"
John, however, felt a growing unease. This wasn't right. This wasn't how chance worked, even when dictated by a die. There was a pattern here, a deliberate design that went beyond the random whims of faith. He glanced at the die nestled in his pocket, its smooth surface suddenly feeling cold against his skin.
As the night wore on, the stakes grew higher, the tension thicker. John's winnings piled up, a small mountain of chips glinting under the harsh fluorescent light. He was on the verge of winning the biggest pot of the night, a pot that would not only cover his rent but also buy him a new, non-explosive coffee machine. He held a four of a kind – fours, naturally – and was about to call Steve's all-in bet when a sudden knock echoed through the apartment.
The knock wasn't just loud, it was… resonant. It vibrated through the air, through the walls, through the very bones of the apartment building. The laughter died down, the poker chips lay forgotten on the table. Everyone stared at the door, a palpable sense of dread hanging in the air.
John felt a cold sweat prickling his skin. He knew, with a certainty that went beyond logic or reason, that this knock wasn’t for any of his friends. It was for him. It was for the man who dared to roll the dice against faith, the man who had inadvertently stumbled upon a pattern in the chaos, a secret that someone, or something, didn't want him to know.
Slowly, he rose from his chair, his eyes fixed on the door. He reached into his pocket and grasped the die, its familiar weight now a source of both comfort and terror. He took a deep breath and opened the door.
Standing on the other side, bathed in an ethereal glow that seemed to emanate from within, was a woman with eyes that shimmered like a thousand dice. She smiled, a smile that was both alluring and faintly menacing.
"John," she said, her voice like the gentle roll of tumbling dice. "We need to talk."