+Russian-Roulette+

She used to play Russian Roulette with her boyfriend and his fathers revolver. He always asked ‘do you trust me not to put a bullet in?’ to which she always replied, ‘yes’ with her fingers crossed. He’d bring the gun up to her forehead and squeeze the trigger; she always flinched. When it was her turn, her fingers always shook while she pushed the cold hard metal into his temple, her hands always a little clammy, timidly cocking it back, and pulling the trigger. He never looked afraid. After playing she would collapse into him, while he soothed her with his pretty words and strong arms. They made love while the gun lay on the floor, still, untouched, so cold. She laid still in his arms, feeling his heartbeat against her back, softly against her skin, his sleepy breath in time perfectly. She wiped away her dried salty tears and crept out of his embrace, slowly dragging on clothes, like armor, her protection against the world. He felt her leave, a small fragile butterfly fluttering from his grip; he kept his eyes closed so not to disturb her. She could be so fragile; he always had to be careful, unless she broke apart.

The last time they played ‘the game’ as they had come to call it, was the first time he ever looked afraid. He had kissed her deeply, and whispered ‘I love you’, before taking the first turn. He looked possibly worse afterwards, and positively terrified, while he let her take her turn. Time after time, they played, and played. He looked down at the cold steel in his hand, when she snatched it away, ‘I’ll take this turn’ she had said, he looked so removed, she just wanted it over, so they could do something else. It was the only time he had looked really scared…and it was the only time she didn’t flinch.

The bullet was never meant for her.