Russian Roulette

He stumbled along the dark sidewalk, swiping quickly at the tears that stung the corners of his eyes. How could things have gone so horribly wrong? He thrust his hands moodily into his pockets and continued on to his humble flat, the trees throwing shadows across his pale face. A group of teenagers passed him as they laughed unabashedly at some very amusing joke. A few turned to stare at the mysterious man walking in the opposite direction, but none held their gaze long enough to see his shoulder shake of sobs.

Walking on, he took a sharp left and came upon his suddenly inviting home. Numb fingers fumbled with the keys until at last the door opened and he entered. Hanging his coat on the rack and running a hand through his dark hair with a sigh, he dropped his keys on the table. He put a hand on the back of the couch to steady himself as he passed by the painfully familiar picture of himself and her together, laughing as their cheeks turned rosy red. Laughter. How strange of a thing that seemed to him now. He continued to stare at the photo, transfixed. Finally, when he felt almost suffocated by the thought of her, he looked away.

It all came back to him in a rush of sudden adrenaline. Her fatal rejection, the guillotine of his resolve. The secret guilt he kept deep within him self. 'It's all your fault,' whispered his inner demon maliciously, 'They all had to die because of you.'

His eyes glassed over in tears he was unwilling to shed. It was true and he had always known so, yet at this moment it cut him deeper to the core than ever. No wonder she, his best friend, had pulled away from his ill-fated attempts at romance. She was afraid of him…and she had good reason. Everyone he came in contact with ended up dead. He was cursed, and he deserved to die. The words echoed in his mind driving him mad. 'You're cursed…you deserve to die…you deserve this pain…'

Yet all of the sudden a feeling of anger descended upon him. How could such a thing be his fault? He had never wanted this life, nor this burden upon his shoulders. Who was she to reject him now, when he was at his weakest, when she had told him only months ago all she wanted was his happiness? How could she do this? How could she stay by his side so long and now only push him away? Maybe she never really cared for him after all. Maybe her caring nature and hopelessly beautiful smiles were just an exceedingly cruel lie. Perhaps he was just born unlovable, forever and always alone, his heart a mere toy for others to beat upon until it finally breaks, the pieces scattering across the cold, hard floor. Was he really expected to pick up the pieces and start again anew?

He felt reckless and light-headed as even more thoughts ran through his head. Suddenly he stormed up the stairs, his breath ragged and forced. An aura of rage surrounded him, covering his true pain and crackling in the air around him, electric in its potency. He stumbled haphazardly into the bathroom and, breathing hard, he looked at the reflection of himself in the mirror. He looked just as he felt, his gaunt and usually pale skin was flushed with red and his eyes flashed dangerously with an unknown source of anger and despair. His hair hung lifeless and lank around a face that looked too old for his young age, as the shadows beneath his eyes seemed to consume them in darkness. Without a second's pause he screamed as his right hand, curled into a fist, shattered the mirror and his sorrowful reflection with it.

He gripped the sides of the sink tightly as he swayed drunkenly. His sudden outburst had left him feeling drained and dizzy so much unlike the foolhardy high that had just left him. Blood seeped slowly and thickly from his knuckles, spattering across the linoleum floor and flowing into the porcelain sink, accompanying the broken fragments of glass. He lifted his bloody and shaking hand to his face and watched as the shining ruby liquid ran down his wrist, passing the long, angry gashes left there from his childhood. He continued to stare with a sickening pleasure.

'Relapse…' screamed the voice in his head wickedly and without mercy. He tugged scornfully at his dark locks of hair.

"SHUT UP!" he yelled, feeling as if he had truly gone insane.

He ran to his bedroom and collapsed on the bed. His hand reached for the bedside table and ripped open the drawer. Ah, there it was, the gleaming ominous object that seemed to be calling out his name. He slowly picked up the gun as he positioned himself on the corner of the bed. Moving almost on autopilot, he loaded the weapon with a single deadly bullet and cocked it. As he put it in his mouth, the cool clean metal brushing his tongue, he thought of her and only of her.

'I love her. So much.' he thought to himself and he paused as he was suddenly stricken by indecision.

'But she doesn't love you.' replied the twisted voice within his head as if his were the simplest decision in the world.

Not one to be shown up by his own mind, he spun the barrel with his thumb and pulled the trigger…