Russian Roulette

Russian Roulette

Hm so this is one thing I wrote that I...well, would like to hear some actual opinions on. And whys!! Please, pretty please!
The inspiration for this came once when I was watching/listening to Rihanna's Russian Roulette music video, and then I actually wrote this thing late at night so...
Also, the pic is just a random one I found using Google...comes off some hairstyles sight. But she's pretty much like Aya. And Cameron- first pic

Chapter 1

Russian Roulette

by: Jennn
I enter the small square concrete room, feeling the need to keep my back to the wall. But there is no reason for this. The room is empty, save for a wooden table in the center, with two wooden chairs on either end. And him.

He looks perhaps two years older than me, but I could be wrong. His hair is long and dark and his eyes under thick dark lashes are darker still. He is, in short, too good-looking to be here. But here he is nonetheless, dressed in white jeans, a white button-down shirt, and white shoes, sitting at the table and looking at me.

I don't know what he sees. My mirror showed me a short girl, thin in the extreme, with a head well covered with thick though short ash blonde hair. My eyes are blue, my skin fair. I chose to wear a short black babydoll dress with cap sleeves and a square neckline, sheer black pantyhose, and black heeled boots that come up to my knees. Around my wrist is a simple silver bracelet-my mother's.

I feel like I am in a dream as I walk to the chair closest to me, and sit. He watches my every move with those fathomless eyes of his.

We have ten minutes before they will bring in the gun and we're supposed to start this game. Ten long minutes. I wonder why they had to bring me so early. What are we supposed to do for so long? We sit still, looking at each other and waiting. We could talk, I suppose, but there is nothing to say. We do not know each other. We only know what we need to know-we both enter this room as prisoners, condemned to death. One of us is going to die; the other will leave as a free man. Or girl, if it's me. It's not our decision which of us it will be-but it will be our own hand that will kill us.

I don't know why he's here, what crime he committed. Mine is quite simple-I am a murderess. To be sure, I didn't deliberately, in cold blood, kill someone. But the fact remains: I was the one who pushed the man over the edge of the building, after he killed my mother. I didn't really realize I was killing him; I was just trying to keep myself alive, to get away from him. But he's just as dead as he would be if I had meant to do it. The fact that he killed my mother first didn't seem to matter to the authorities. The unfairness of this cuts me, how can they just ignore this? She offered herself to him in exchange for my life, and he took hers. But that didn't stop him from reaching for me. It just plunged me into something that made me capable of what I did.

The boy-man across from me clears his throat.

I wonder what his name is. It's unimportant. Before long one of us will be dead, and our names really won't matter to the other.

"What's your name?" he asks suddenly.

My eyes flash to his face and it takes a moment for me to find the words to answer.
"I''s... Aya."

He nods. "Pleasure meeting you."
There's a touch of irony in his voice, and I don't believe him for a second.
"I'm Cameron."

I nod too. "Likewise," I say, my voice nothing but a whisper.

The door opens and both our eyes fly to it. Neither of us really breathes again until the man has left. Then we both look at the gun lying on the table.

We're supposed to begin now.

He looks at me and I look at him and suddenly I don't want either of us to die. I realize I want to know this boy. Cameron. I like the way his hair brushes against the collar of his shirt, and the way his eyebrows pull together when he's disturbed, and the way his eyes look at me.

They shouldn't have done this! They shouldn't have given us any time before the game. Did they do it on purpose to make it more painful?

"Ladies first?" he asks, and his voice cracks.

I stare at the gun and then look at him. I don't know how he means this, but I see it as a kindness. Still, I hesitate a moment before reaching for the gun.

His hand lands on top of mine before I can pick the gun up. I look up at him again. He's still got his gaze fixed on my face.

"Calm yourself," he says gently.

I take a deep shuddering breath. I nod. Slowly, slowly, I pull the gun toward me. Slower still, I lift it to my temple. My hands are cold and clammy. My brain is whirling.

Something passes over his face, I can't identify the expression. Then he closes his eyes, shutting himself away. Like he can't bear to watch.

I stare at his face and pull the trigger.

His eyes fly open. But there is nothing to see. My eyes are wide, uncertain whether to feel relieved or even more frightened.

His turn. Gun to his temple. I can't bear to watch. It's worse than doing it myself. I put my hands over my face.

The gunshot explodes and I have to check. He's still alive and I feel a tiny breath of relief escape me.

Only now, it's my turn again. He shudders as he watches me, slowly lifting it to my temple. Again, at the last moment he looks away. But when I pull the trigger, he has to look back at me.

Again, it's him. And I don't think I can bear it. I'd almost rather do this alone. I press my hands against the sides of my face, staring at him, desperately begging him- don't die don't die don't die -and he pulls the trigger and still he's alive and I feel tears in my eyes but I blink them back because now- now...

Now there are only two shot left. And only one will kill.

My turn. And if it doesn't kill me this time, I will walk from this room. And he will die.

Raising the gun to my temple is so very hard. I can scarcely breathe. My heartbeat is loud in my ears. And I don't know if I can pull the trigger this time.

He isn't looking at me. His eyes are on his hands in his lap. His expression is desperate.

"Close your eyes," he suggests. "Sometimes it helps."

Has he done this before?

But I do as he says. And I pull the trigger.

Tears topple out of my eyes and spill down my cheeks. I shove my fist into my mouth to keep from sobbing as I carefully put the gun back on the table.

I'm alive. And soon-soon he won't be. I do not know him, so why is this sending a razorblade into my chest?

He looks at me then. In his eyes I read desperation and despair and tiny bit of relief. I cannot bear it. He deserves his life just as much as I deserve mine. Why did he let me go first? I think I'd rather be dead than watch him die.

Suddenly he is on his feet. Moving fast, he comes over to me and pulls me up. I stare at him, confused, what is he going to do? And then his mouth comes down on mine, desperate, urgent, and I'm responding without knowing what I'm doing because I've never been kissed before but it doesn't seem to matter and when he pulls back I don't want to let him go so I push against him, my mouth, his mouth, his hands moving over my body now and into some part of my mind comes the thought- I bet this isn't something this room sees every day -and this makes me laugh and then I'm crying and we're no longer kissing he's just holding me tight and he's crying too. He kisses me again then, gently this time just pressing his lips softly against mine. Then he cups my face in his hands and looks at me. We're both still crying but I look back into his eyes and I wish-I wish I could stay in this moment forever. He smoothes my hair back and hugs me again.

"I wish," he whispers in my ear, "I wish I had met you somewhere else."

Then he kisses my forehead and goes back to his chair. I'm sitting in mine again and I'm watching him lift it to his temple and I think I'm going to go crazy. My body is so tense it hurts, and I'm thinking if this is the price of freedom, take it; I don't want it anymore if I can't have it with him. My entire being is centered on this boy sitting across from me, Cameron, and how is it possible to care so much about someone you just met and don't know?

Suddenly I'm out of my seat and flying over to him. I snatch the gun out of his hand and say, "No, let me. I'd rather."

It's at my temple before he understands, but it's out of my hand before I can pull the trigger.

"Aya," he says, and his voice turns my name into a caress. "No. This one's for me."

"No!" I say, my voice desperate, and I try to wrestle it out of his grip.

But he's stronger than me and he's not letting me. He catches both my hands in one of his.
"Stop," he says. "Go. Go live."

"I don't even want to," I hear myself choke out.

He drops the gun on the table and he's touching me, my face and my arms and my hair and my shoulders.
"You and I," he says, "We could have been happy together. But we found each other too late and now you've got to go and live, because one of us has to and you are the one who can light up the room when you smile."

"There's no one for me anyway," I say desperately, reaching for him.

"But there will be," he says. "Now go sit down."


"Listen to me." His voice is harsh, almost tortured, and I find myself obeying.

I sink into my chair but I can't look at him and I double up in my chair, my fists clenched so tightly my nails are making scarlet half-moons in my palms and I bite down so hard on my lip I taste blood. My fists are pressed hard against my ears but I hear the gunshot anyway.


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