Work Text:
There’s a gun in your hand. A slick, pretty revolver; far too easy to play with. It’s solid in a way nothing else is these days. Bony fingers twitch near the trigger, holding back from caressing it, because you know if you do you won’t be able to stop yourself from pressing hard. You hold it because you don’t know how to put the gun down. You can hide it from anyone but yourself.
The red lights give you a headache, but that’s nothing new. The flickering monitor behind you burns into your retinas even though it isn’t in your line of sight anymore. You can see pictures and text ciphered together, illegible. It used to make you nauseous but you don’t have the appetite anymore. What makes you nauseous now is your own face reflected back at you on the screen, a digital mirror. You know it isn’t distorted one bit. The funhouse is outside, not here.
There’s two pictures on the table in front of you and you can hardly stand to look at either. A bullet already pierces one. You’ve been here before. A hundred times, probably. The pictures blur together a little, long ginger hair falling into your face like it’s attached to you. The frames get cloudier, and you confuse love and hate, and the thought makes you want to put the gun to your own head. But you’re far too busy for that. You already know which you’ve chosen, anyway. If you think about it for too long you won’t be able to stop yourself from moving your hand.
You think about her instead. Once, her hands were on you. She leaned in close and giggled. Close enough you could feel her breath on your face, see her eyes crinkle through the glare of the summer sun on glass and plastic. You brought a hand up, cradling her head like a newborn, precious and fragile. You carded a hand through her pretty long hair, working out tangles. Her perfume was floral, far too heavy. It’s choking.
She smiled wide, face shaded by the rustling leaves of the tree overhead. You couldn’t see her eyes anymore, but you could see her lips. You kissed her. She giggled harder, the sound quickly swallowed in your mouth. Her hands moved to your chest, up and down, feeling each rib. You pulled her closer, too close for where you sat in her front yard in the bright afternoon. But neither of you could resist it, every clumsy youthful touch burning skin more than the heat ever could.
You remember the feeling of her hands all over you. You picture them on your neck, choking. It’s like the lingering sting after a slap and you crave nothing more. You couldn’t care less if she hated you now. You know intimately the feeling of hate and how it’s far too close for comfort and you’d happily settle. You remember how her dad taught her to use his revolver and wish she was the one holding yours in your hand. You twirl the chamber with your thumb and pretend it’s her. It doesn’t work at all.
The memories are getting blurry. Like damaged film, exposed to light too early. Of course, it wasn’t you who opened the dark room’s door. Not this one, at least. Your eyes try to wonder to the other picture again and you unconsciously grip the gun tighter. Lately, when you think of her, you can’t stop your thoughts drifting to him. You know it isn’t just his influence. It makes you hate yourself almost as much as you hate him. You love her far more than you love yourself and you try to take comfort in it.
You spin the chamber again. It’s full, a half dozen rounds. No Russian roulette tonight; the game is rigged, you’ll always win. You lift the gun and squint into the barrel. You swear you can see the pattern inside. That fucking circle, spiral, whatever. No matter how close you look you can never see where it starts or ends. It spins and your head and stomach go with it. You look deep into the picture trying to discern the sins weaving it together and your finger slips on the trigger.
There's broken glass on the floor from how you knocked against the table when you fell. Your ears are too busy ringing to have heard the sound. You try to check if the pictures were what shattered but you can’t move. The memes in your head spill onto the floor and it’s intoxicating. You can see every horrible fucking thought you’ve ever had plainly, pooling and sticky, vomiting itself from your skull and staining your jeans the colour of shorts you don’t fit into anymore.
The bleed state gets worse and you’re losing the dark game against yourself. It’s kind of embarrassing. You lay down and let the copper mat your hair, red like rose. You think about the time she accidentally tripped you up and you fell and broke your nose. The pain was nothing when she leaned in, wiping snot and blood and tears from your face. You must’ve looked disgusting but you couldn’t see your reflection in her glasses. Just her eyes, heavy like the sight was truly prized. She sat on your lap and set the bone and you prayed she couldn’t hear how fast your heart was beating. You couldn’t feel the pain at all. You still can’t.
You try to open your eyes again but nothing happens. You can’t see her face. She isn’t here. It’s just the fucking circle. You wait for the iron maiden, hoping you can feel her for just a moment in its sweet embrace . It’s not like you won’t be back. You’d take an ending here at this point, a bullet through your own brain, just what you deserve. You know you won’t get it. The agony bursts itself like fireworks in whatever’s left of your head, finally bothering to show. The countdown to New Year’s ticks and you wait for it to turn 1999, again. Better luck next time, lover boy.