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He was real pretty, in the bar. Freckle-faced and curly-haired with long dark eyelashes, and scars splitting up his calloused fingers. The glow of a neon Budweiser sign lit up his face like a kid bursting with joy by a Christmas tree, and his smile was just as wide and playful. With his tongue stuck against his gaptooth and his thumb in his belt loop, he’d kindly bought you a glass of Yellow Rose and one for himself, giggling along to your jokes all the while. Called for another round of drinks, showed you the resin scorpion belt buckle and burned-leather paisley holster he made himself. A charmer, for sure, though he seemed to want to chat your ear off.
But now, his voice is gentler, those calloused hands far too close, one wrapped around your throat and the other showing you the pretty engraved pearl revolver that belongs in that holster he’d made. His smile is calmer than before, more relaxed, no fangs bared in the dim light. The chase is over, the woozy feeling of you stumbling to your car then feeling his arms around you, the convincing it took to let him get that close to you in the first place, the drive in the back of his truck to take you to his house. All that is done, and he just gets to play his game.
The gun is in your mouth, now, barrel pressed against your tongue.
And by some unseen means, try as you might to will your limbs so fight back, you can’t move a muscle.
“You know, they say guns aren’t very efficient in this kind of close range,” he hums, squeezing a little tighter on your windpipe. “All ‘cause your target could try to grab or shove it before the bullet ever leaves the chamber.”
He pulls back the hammer, ready to fire with a satisfied click. It’s accompanied by a desperate whimper from your teary face.
“But you’re not going to risk your chances, are you?”
Despite the terror at moving, fearing that you’ll set it off, you nod.
“Clever doll. Now, I’ll let you move, on one condition.” He pushes the gun a little further, the front sight scraping the roof of your mouth. Despite his cold, stinging words, his voice sounds as admiring as ever, like he’s still just flirting after a sweet little meeting. “Put on a show. Cry, plead, whatever you want. Whatever you think will convince me not to put a hole in your pretty fuckin’ brainstem.”