Russian Roulette

The round had been emptied onto the plush carpet of the room, black metal contrasting with the creamy perfection of the soft flooring. As though someone had planned it, the six bullets lay in precisely the middle of the large circle. Words my mother had spoke seemed to ring through the ring as a boy across the room plucked the gun from the floor, ‘The more people that play, the less chance you have in losing.’
Juggling the revolver in his hands for a moment, he pushed the round open. Empty, as expected. He retrieved a single bullet from the center of the group and slid it into a slot. As he sat up, his back erect, I studied his features. Tall, with wavy raven hair, burry green eyes, and a nose most girls would kill for. He had simple lips and high, visible cheekbones. With a shuddering breath, his body shook with nerves. Everyone knew he didn’t want to play, I could sense it, even from twenty feet away. He sucked his bottom lip between his straight white teeth and bit down a tad too hard, sending a trickle of blood down his caramel coloured skin.
Then he was pushing the thing closed and spinning the barrel. Clicks sounded through the room as it slowed. Licking the spot he’d opened on his lip, he breathed deep and held the gun to his temple. His eyes pleaded for someone to beg him not to do this. We all smiled.
Suddenly, I was sitting next to him, whispering into his ear through his hair. “You don’t have to do this.”
He lowered the gun and said, “Yes, I do.” His voice was creamy and smooth. Like eating melting white chocolate without the mess. His green eyes met my own and he stared as though we were the only people there. When I turned to look, we were the only people in the room. One bullet in a round of six. If we played typically, I’d be more likely to die.
My heart raced, threatening to beat through my ribs as he lifted the gun once more. Cocking the gun and fingering the trigger, his breathing became shallow. He was going to do this.
“I love you,” I blurted. He stopped, let the hammer fall back into place, and lowered the gun.
“What?”
He only wanted me to say it again. He’d heard me the first time. “I love you.”
The gun fell to the floor, making all the noise it could through four inches of carpet. “You’re lying.” Not a question, but barely a statement. More of a realization.
“I am,” I said, grabbing the revolver and spinning the barrel myself. Holding the muzzle to my head, I cocked the gun and pulled the trigger.



Nightmares suck. I'm tired of having them. Actually, no. I'm tired of dying in them. Whoever said if you die in your dreams, you die in real life, was clearly wrong.