Regaining Control

By Amanda Clewis

The soft roll of the roulette wheel calms him some as he watches the bets on the table. He had not really come to Vegas to be a roulette dealer, but it seemed to keep his mind off the troubles that seemed to have followed him from Indiana. He sighs inwardly, calling the number as it softly lands in one of the small spaces. No one has won the bet this time, and they seem disappointed that they can't fate the wheel to land where they want it. He gives them a soft smile, "Maybe, next time." He tells them, the usual tourist garbage that he is supposed to say.

The person on the next shift comes to relieve him of monotony of the job, and he wanders off into the shadows. In a blur, he clocks out and heads toward his car. He unlocks the door to the car, and sits against the cool seats. He is glad that he works the night shift, he is not sure that he can handle it if he had to drive home in the sweltering heat. (He still keeps the windows cracked all the time just in case, he does have to switch shifts with someone.) He lays his head against the steering wheel very carefully. He is exhausted; he is getting the ever growing feeling of having to fight your way out of quicksand. He feels bad that his head can only think of this feeling in clichés.

Tonight, he is going to do what has been roaming in his head for days. He doesn't even care if someone finds him, before he had thought that he would do it for attention, but like most things, attention can't easily be acquired. His workmates seem to know nothing of what is going on, and neither does anyone else. He has thrown on the façade of being okay for the longest time now, and has put extra energy into making sure that it doesn't fade away. He was tempted to give away all his stuff, but being a curious person he seemed to know the signs of what is going to happen, and doesn't want to give any real outward cries for help.

For months it seems that he has been trying to figure out how to talk to people about the demons that invade his mind, but he is not sure how he is going to. He is beginning to trust some people, but he can't trust them enough to tell them the thoughts that have been in his head, the ones that are screaming to be let out. He has started to keep a journal, but he is even afraid to write the memories down there. He knows his parents aren't going to except his life, if he tells them, and remains alive. So, the only thing to do is to do what he has planned.