ultraviolence
ENTROPY
–
–
The dealer shuffled and reshuffled the cards, filmy eyes sliding first over her bare neck and then downward. "What brings you to the City of Dreams?"
Sakura's shoulders tightened, straps of her bottle green dress sliding closer to her neck, fabric draping and pulling downward. She flicked her gaze downward to the plated name of the casino encrusted on the edge of the table. Dazed, she traced the letters, index finger gliding over the 'C' in City. "A dream. What else?"
Her voice was steady, but still she glanced over her shoulder and flagged down a server. A cup of whisky was placed in front of her on a coaster, and she inhaled the stench of alcohol to give her a wisp of bravery before she sipped.
Two cards slapped the table in front of her, face down. She barely glanced up, even as a familiar arm brushed against hers. He sat just to her left, wasting no moments to slide the cards towards him, lifting up the edge to read their value before pressing them back down.
"What about you, sir?"
She kept her gaze straight ahead. His voice was just the same—one part smoker's lung, one part private school. "What about me?"
"What brings you here?"
Typical to his character, he produced a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it quickly, bringing it to his lips. "Unfinished business," he replied in an exhale of smoke. His words had edge; even the other occupants of the table could feel it. A few glanced up warily.
She couldn't help herself. "That doesn't sound very dreamlike." Finally, finally, she turned her chin leftward, meeting his bloodshot eyes. The other players glanced up again at the interaction.
He huffed. A server set an ashtray down to his left, and he tapped the cigarette against it without looking. He broke their staring contest, but not before profiling all of her. She could feel his eyes on her, tracing the bridge of her nose, the new red lipstick she'd gotten, the baby hairs that hadn't quite made it into her updo, the press of her heart against her chest.
"Life isn't a dream." He talked towards the dealer, now. Their elbows brushed as they both reached for their cards again—a quick reread—and she flinched away.
He brought the cigarette to his lips, and the game began. She tossed a few coins half-heartedly towards the middle of the table. Gambling had never been her forte. When the dealer slid her a third card upon request, a jack on top of her existing 10 and 2, she folded.
Without waiting for the game to finish, she turned to the side, legs and heeled feet exposed by the slit on the side of her dress, and stood. She didn't bother to finish her drink.
"Thank you for the game, but I have some things to attend to." She bent down with the guise of adjusting her shoe but instead reached into his black loafer, grabbing the key she knew would be tucked into the side.
This time, he flinched.
She walked away.
–
His room was quiet, cold, rich. Crown molding crusted the walls, and the furniture was deep wood edged in plated metals. Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor, and she scanned the area before making her selection.
Beeline made for the bedside drawer, she yanked it open and pulled out a thick bundle of papers inside. Flipping through them—all notebook paper and diagrams—she selected a map and a list, crumpling both of them and tossing them in the trashcan by the foot of the bed.
Her hands trembled as she hurried to repackage the papers and put them back where they belonged. Just as she made to lay them back in the drawer, she noticed the handle of a gun peeking out from the very back.
She didn't hesitate to grab it, shove the papers in, and slam the drawer shut.
The pistol was cold in her palm.
None of the lights were on. Unsteadily and in the dark, shadows blooming like bruises across the floor, she made her way to the balcony. The night air was humid with tension, and even the cool metal and glass of the sliding door couldn't drive down her temperature.
She was warm all over—except the gun. Never the gun. She dangled it over the balcony, out of sight for anyone walking up behind her.
The lock clicked open on the main door behind her, and she swallowed. He traversed the room slowly, first slipping off his shoes, placing them neatly by the door. Then, he opened the mini fridge and grabbed a bottle of beer.
A twist top—she could hear it hiss and pop as the pressure was released.
He drank and then walked up behind her.
"Put the gun away, Sakura," he drawled. He came to a stop just behind her, and she whipped around, pressing the barrel into his stomach. Her other hand came up to his shoulder to steady herself, weigh him down.
He didn't look even the slightest bit afraid. "Really? After all these years, you're gonna shoot me now?" He clutched his chest. "I'm hurt. Really."
Where with him there was theatrics and deception, she only had room for steel…and if she were honest with herself, an undercurrent of sadness. "Her name was Samui. The girl you killed. She worked for the new mayor's old campaign office. She was just 19." When he said nothing, she pressed onward; bitterness rose on her tongue. "After all these years, I've finally realized what you've become."
"Oh? Have you?"
She sneered. "Shut the fuck up. Don't play games like this. I have the gun here. I have the power, and I will shoot you."
He shrugged, took another swig of beer. "If you wanted to kill me, you'd have already done it. But you haven't. Because you can't. Because," he paused for effect, leaning forward. His breath was hot with alcohol and tobacco. "You love me."
Her heart twisted. "Don't."
He had the gall to laugh. "Don't? You still wear it on your sleeve like some pathetic prize. Your love. It's not a prize. It's a corpse."
She pulled the trigger. It clicked, echoed emptily between them.
His smirk widened into a grin. He clucked his tongue. "Well, well, well. Law enforcement Sakura couldn't be bothered to check if a gun is loaded before she steals it. Amateur mistake." He yanked the gun out between her fingers, tossing it backwards onto the bed as he sealed the space between them. The murky bottle, now empty, slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor, rolling to a stop by the railing.
His hands dragged down the sides of her body, and she jerked away as much as she could, but she was trapped between the railing and him. "Stop it." Her jaw clenched. His breath warmed her face, hops from the beer coloring the air between them.
One of his hands dragged the bottom of her dress upward, hand trailing the length of her inner thigh before cupping her roughly. She slapped him, and he shot her a reprimanding look even as the red burst across his face. "You made this necessary. You went through the drawer to get my gun. I need to be certain that you're not keeping my secrets on you. It's either I feel you up," he punctuated this by letting the dress hem go in favor of squeezing her breasts, "or I strip you down."
Her eyes burned. "Sasuke, please."
He let go, taking a step back, and then reached to stroke the side of her cheek, softer than he had any right to be. His hand dropped back to his side.
"Sasuke, please. Don't do this. You have…you're throwing the rest of your life away. You could have a shot at a life. You could have…" The words were a hiccup in her throat.
He turned to walk away, back to the drawer where she had found the gun. "You? Is that what you were going to say?"
Any composure she had left was gone as he grew closer and closer to leaving again. "Don't. Don't do this." She swallowed. It did nothing to push away the thick feeling choking her. Loss, grief, pity—for herself or for him, she couldn't distinguish. "I do love you. I love you with…with all my heart. You have always known that. I can't promise you," she chuckled caustically at herself, "fun every day. Or even a life without regret. It's far too late for that. But…you'd have me. That would be enough."
He looked back at her, even as he put the papers in the backpack by the bedside and slipped the empty gun in as well. The zipper purred as it eased closed.
"Sakura…" he breathed. "I already have you. I don't have justice."
Her lips trembled and she turned back to face the balcony, arms coiling around herself. "That's a funny word you have there—justice. Not typically a synonym for revenge."
She heard shuffling and then footsteps. His lips pressed to her ear—a kiss and more. "Sometimes, they're forced to be the same thing."
She didn't turn back around until he left, door clicking shut. She pressed her hands to her burning eyes, willing the tears to reabsorb back into her body but instead she came away with wet palms. She breathed slowly, focusing on the lit windows dotting the skyline.
No more.
She turned around and walked over to the trashcan, fishing out her information. Documents in hand, she peeled off her heels, leaned over to turn on the bedside lamp, and climbed into the bed.
It still smelled like him—but this time, one part soap and one part ghosts.
She unfurled the documents. It was time to begin.
–
–
notes: written for ssm '16, part 1 of 7