Professional expertise on the psychology of the gambling addict had not kept Adam safe from becoming one nor he would have expected it to. He knew exactly what was wrong with him, which is rarely helpful.
Adam had noted with impotent interest that the rationalization complex that he had built around to defend himself from the unavoidably growing stream of losses had skipped (was this class snobbery?) the semi-numerological Systems of his earlier patients and (was this disciplinary resentment?) the oracular AIs of more recent ones. With an absolute psychological certainty that neither prevented nor was obstructed by his intellectual awareness of its nonsense Adam's mind had grabbed his very real guilt and his equally real losses and, like many others before, had found a direct link between the cleanliness of his ethical interoception and such cosmic forces as Champions League playoffs.
That had been months ago. Now it was an early November night, his mental state had gotten much worse, and Adam's one regret he was able to acknowledge to himself was not having written a paper on himself as a case study. He had thought of it but not very seriously. He had been busy.
An old-fashioned spreadsheet pockmarked with red cells seemed to be reflecting his bloodshot eyes. Weeks before had found a pattern (he knew he hadn't; he was sure he had). On the strength of that ghost of a certainty and lacking any assets anymore he had put on his life and freedom as collateral for loans — that is, he had done what small frauds he could and took loans from companies desperate or illegal enough to lend to him — and built on that money a subtle monstrosity of a parlay on the sort of non-sport bets that had been the second or third stage of his descent. Now the gun on his desk drawer was the only thing he owned.
Five minutes to midnight when all of his bets would be resolved at once. The general shape of the results was clear but there was still enough uncertainty for the coin to fall on either side. He had bet against the world's well-being, hard. He had never been a man who could profit from his selfishness even as he tried. Surely placing these bets had nudged the world to a better place. There was no way he would ever be able to pay the money he owned but that was what the gun was for.
He picked up the gun from the drawer and maximized the browser window. Three minutes to midnight. If the balance of his bets went the other way he would have made a lot of money. More than enough to pay his debts. Surely his betting could have not made a difference to the outcome? He knew they couldn't but he knew his guilt. That was also what the gun was for.
He had built for himself an addict's masterpiece of a sure bet.
One minute to midnight. It came to him with the precision of the already known that the agnosticism he had claimed his whole adult life had been more indifference than conviction. So here was another bet. He smiled around the gun in his mouth. Ten seconds to midnight.
(Originally posted on my blog.)