The neon lights of the casino ruined me. As Alex, ruined myself at the blackjack tables.
Every night, the roulette wheel spun its hypnotic dance. The cheers at the craps table was my siren's call.
My wife, Anna, urged me to quit playing slots, but I couldn't resist the pull.
On that calamitous night at the underground gambling den, I bet everything: our future, our property - all on a single hand.
The roulette ball landed on the wrong number and luck turned its back on me.
Returning to our apartment with the bitter taste of defeat, I found only a note: "I'm leaving. Your love for the casino has torn us apart."
Deserted in an vacant house, I grasped that pursuing a royal flush lost me all that was real.
Medical professionals confirmed severe depression, deepened by my losses at the tables.
Now, every day is a fight not just with the memory of the poker table, but with the all-consuming melancholy that haunts me. Do I have the strength to rise above this chasm dug by years of gambling?
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