Russian Roulette

         

Lydia Sweeney

         

Mrs. Meissner, 7

         

2/9/08

         

Russian Roulette

By Lydia Sweeney

Spin. Click. Spin. Click. The revolver in my hand keeps shooting blanks. I sit here in the dark corner of my room, beckoning Death to come my way. Her pictures decorate the walls, and make the pain all the more unbearable. When will that single bullet slide into the chamber? When will it exit the gun and enter my tortured mind? I know it's what I deserve. It's the least of what I deserve after what I've done to her, what I caused her to do to herself. This cold steel against my temple is a surprising comfort. As chance will have it, it will all be over soon. And though I've vanquished the odds for failure, I will still blame this event on the cruel hands of Fate.

         I still remember the first time I saw her. She was lying on the grass under a shade tree trying to find rest. Her hair was spread out like ripples in black satin sheets. Her skin was pale, but not in a sickly way, instead it sparkled in the sun and possessed a beauty worthy of Aphrodite. Her lips and cheeks had a rosy hue, and gave life to the rest of her features. From where I stood, she resembled Snow White. Like the enchanted princess in the story, her eyes were closed.
I briefly entertained the imaginative thought that I was her prince, here to wake her from the witch's evil spell with a kiss. But I wasn't looking to be slapped across the face. She wasn't sleeping either; her breathing wasn't steady enough. Still its rhythm entranced me. I watched her chest rising and falling. She held a magnetism I couldn't deny, and I decided to make the journey over to her against my usual nature.
         She didn't notice me at first. She was preoccupied with relaxing. It wasn't until my body became a solar eclipse that she finally opened her eyes. The view was breath-taking. I changed my mind; it was her eyes that were full of life. They were emerald with specks of jade swirled in. They twinkled like stars.
"Can I help you?" she asked. The annoyance was evident in her voice. I suspected she wasn't much of a people-person. I'm not either.
My voice was more nervous than I had intended it to be. "Well, I saw you from over there, and noticed that you didn't look familiar. When you've lived in this town since you were a young boy, you tend to know everybody. I'm sure I haven't seen you around here before. Might I ask your name?" Oops, a little too forward maybe. I gauged her reaction.
"You're right, I am new." Her irritation was becoming more noticeable with each syllable. I shouldn't have disturbed her. "My name is Juliette. Are you a stalker or something?" She sat up on her elbows.
I knew the introduction wasn't an invitation to stay, but I sat down anyways. I needed to be beside her. The grass was still damp with the dew from the morning.
"My therapist says I have 'stalker-like tendencies,' but don't worry, she also says I show no signs of acting on them," I said hoping to lighten the mood. It worked. This final response seemed to make her less defensive. The cherry lips on her o-so-perfect face parted into a half-smile.
"By the way, my name is Adam," I added. She stuck out her hand in reply. I readily shook it. It was warm like her smile, and both sent chills down my spine.
"Well Adam, do you creep up on random strangers often?" she asked.
"Nope, just the pretty ones," I countered. That made her blush. A strand of her silky hair fell in front of her eyes, and I fought the urge to brush it back. "So, why did you move to Misery?" I prodded, hoping to learn more about this fascinating creature and change the subject.
"I don't know. Why would anyone choose to live in a town called Misery? Seems counterintuitive to me. But the despair in the name is what attracted me here. In my mind, it reminded me a little of the whole Iceland/Greenland story with the Vikings. You know, how they named the lush, grassy one Iceland, and the uninhabitable, sparse one Greenland in order to fool travelers. Misery sounds like a place with a beautiful landscape and tall trees to me. Now, a town called Bliss, I would run far away from." She seemed thoughtful. It took her a minute to complete her answer. "That's why I chose to live here. Oh, and also because my Aunt lives here and needs me to take care of her. Does that answer suffice?" she wasn't looking for approval, it was a challenge.
"Hmmm, you seem like a very interesting person," I commented, leaving it at that. "Who's your Aunt?"
"She's kind of a hermit, I don't know if you'll know her. She lives in that rickety house on the edge of town. Broken shutters, bats in the chimney, you know the usual haunted mansion."
"Your Aunt is Old Lady Crawford?" I questioned incredulously. It shocked me that someone this remarkable could bear any similarity to the insane lady who lived on the outskirts of Misery.
"Yep, the one and the same, although, I don't think she's as crazy as some of the rumors I've heard around here have made her out to be. She's just lonely. That's why I'm here, to provide company more so than 'take care of her'. She's pretty self-sufficient." I could see she respected her aunt. Her every word revealed more and more. It was all so mesmerizing, I couldn't leave without trying.
"Ummm," I stuttered awkwardly. "I was wondering if maybe you might want to go out with me tomorrow night." She could tell I was shy and didn't do this kind of thing often.
"Well, uh, yeah that would be okay. What were you thinking of doing?" She was timid too.
"Dinner and a movie? Your choice," I offered, hoping to make the idea of spending an evening with me more appealing.
"Sure, I'll call the theater tonight to see what's playing. As for the food, I like Mexican. Are there any good taco places around here?" Her unfamiliarity with the area was cute.
I took the opportunity. "As it turns out, my favorite is Mexican too, and I know just the place. Can I pick you up around seven?" my words were a little rushed, but she seemed to decipher them easily.
"That sounds great. I'll let Aunt Clara or 'Old Lady Crawford,'(she rolled her eyes at the nickname), know that I'll be going out tomorrow so that she won't set an extra plate," she said with intended sarcasm. I was surprised. This was going better than I had anticipated.
"See you tomorrow night then," I replied, moving from my seat. It was all I could do to drag myself away from her side. Every fiber in my being screamed for me to stay, but I knew prolonged lingering might creep her out. So against my will, I decided to leave.
As I walked away, I saw her assume her original position under the tree. My heart skipped beats in its measure. The marching-band was out of sync in my chest, but I didn't mind. I knew this was the start of something with meaning. I just didn't know how meaningful it would be...

"Baby I'm not alright when you go, I'm not fine..." the lyrics sent me reeling as they blared from the speakers on my dresser. Stupid stereo, playing our song. Snap back to reality, back to the agony. Everything in the preceding story seems like a distant memory to me now. It was too flawless to stay that way. I should have known that it would all come crashing down, and it did.

Flash forward nine months to yesterday. I was at the florist looking for the perfect set of thirteen roses. The ones I settled on were crimson; blood-red. They'd be perfect for her, a great "just-because-I-love-you" present. I tied a black ribbon around the stems, and headed out the door.
The air was brisk, as is expected during October. A gust of wind whisked the autumn leaves in my path into the air and set them down at their new destination in the middle of the street. My feet scraped the side-walk as I shuffled my way to her new apartment.
The arrangement with her Aunt hadn't worked out so well. It turned out Old Lady Crawford was crazier than Juliette thought. So in order to stay in Misery, she had to find her own place. The new freedom worked out great. We had more time alone. It was like our own escape.
At my house, Stephen, my brother, pestered us. He seemed to take a liking to her too, but that's expected with teenage boys. Their hormones wreak havoc on their psyche. It's hard to be in the presence of someone as gorgeous as Juliette and not be attracted to her. It was nothing more than a crush though, and altogether, harmless. His age, only seventeen, as compared my twenty-one years, posed no threat to me. He was only a nuisance.
The walk to the North apartment complex didn't take much time at all. Unlike the haunted house she lived in when she first came here, it was located at the center of town and wasn't far from my house. It conserved gas to make the trip on foot. Another strong difference between her new place and her past dwelling was the atmosphere. The painted, well-hung shutters were a strong contrast to the broken ones, and the cheery, yellow exterior was inviting, rather than frightening. Juliette joked that it was like "a dandelion on crack." It was a bit over-the-top I agreed.
The gate was already unlatched when I got there. It was easy to kick open with my foot, and since my hands were full, it was convenient too. I couldn't wait to see the look on her face, when I walked in with the roses. I pictured the look of glee I would receive. I still had butterflies in my stomach when I thought of her. I wondered if that would ever go away. I hoped it wouldn't.
As I ascended the stairs, I checked my breath to make sure it wasn't offensive. I was about to knock on the door, when I decided a surprise appearance would be more romantic. The door, to my advantage, was unlocked. I turned the knob, and walked in.
The beautiful roses fell to the floor, and my reason for living came crashing with them. My eyes fought against the tears. There, standing in the living room, was Juliette. Her lips were locked tightly with the treacherous face of Stephen. It was grotesquely passionate. Both of them jumped apart when they finally noticed my presence. Juliette's face was a look of shame and repentance. My ring looked ugly on her finger.
"Adam, I can explain!" she exclaimed. I guess she thought an explanation was what I wanted. Her words wouldn't give me comfort. My brother stood there resigned, not sure whether he should make a run for the door, or just stand there with no excuse. I had nothing to say. I turned and slammed the door behind me. As soon as I was down the stairs, I began to run, hoping I could leave the sight of what I just saw behind me in a cloud of dust. No such luck. I could hear the traitor screaming behind me, begging me to come back. Not a chance.
The further away I ran, the fainter Juliette's pleading cries became. The whining breeze muffled the other noises around me. It was an understatement to say that my senses were impaired. It was like I was in a drunken stupor when I finally slowed in front of my house. My feet groaned and stumbled as I tried to make my way to my room. All I needed was a piece of paper, and then I could leave.

What I did next, is the reason I sit here, toying with the thin strand of life and taunting my mortality. I knew she was too good to be true. One might even say I brought this on myself the day I gave in to her captivating countenance.

I sat on a park bench while I composed my words thoughtfully for her. Ironically, it wasn't twenty feet away from the tree I first saw her under. The leaves weren't green anymore. Most were dead and lying on the ground beneath the barren bark. I couldn't help but see the startling connection to our love. My perch caused painful reminiscence. I struggled to stay focused on the letter.

What was in the letter, I will not disclose. I think it's better if only one person has to be subjected to the ink of my broken heart. I will only tell you the bizarre events that followed:

I left the note under her door during the wee hours of the morning. The misty midnight air hung over me. It was like suffocating. I choked on the dense ambiance. This wasn't supposed to happen. I walked away one last time, and went back to my house. There was no other place to go; the frigid night air wouldn't allow it.
All the lights were off when I arrived. Stephen hadn't been home since that afternoon, so there was no chance of confrontation. I wouldn't have been able to handle it. I crept to my room and locked the door behind me. I didn't want to be bothered. I threw myself on the bed, and, exhausted by the day's affairs, fell into a restless sleep.
I woke up at the first sign of morning. The sun's rays filtered in through the curtains and brought the dread of my first day without her there since summer. Everything seemed so normal it was nauseating. My room still echoed how valuable she was to my life. Her role was still being played though she'd already exited the stage.
I wiped the sleep away from my eyes and decided to face what was to be my life from now on. When I stepped into the hall though, I was met by something of a very different caliber.
The cardboard box was sitting on the kitchen table. It had my name on it. I knew instantly who it was from. I recognized the handwriting; curvy yet delicate, like her. I picked the box up with caution. When it didn't explode, I figured it would be safe to take it to my room before I opened it.
The box was held together with a single strip of tape. It took merely a few seconds to reveal its contents. The first thing I saw was the framed picture of us she always kept on her nightstand. Tears stung my eyes. I wasn't emotionally strong enough for this. I compelled myself to continue on. The next thing I saw was the engagement ring I gave her when I asked her to marry me a month ago. It had been exactly what she wanted. Not fancy, just simple. A diamond on top with a white-gold band, it was supposed to be a symbol of forever. I looked away in disgust. It had all been a waste.
I turned back to the inner recesses of the broken-treasure chest. My eye caught the final thing, the black box. I took it out and examined it, nothing out of the ordinary. I decided to lift the lid.
A mix of emotions flooded me when I saw what it was. Terror was the most prominent. I gasped in shock. There, inside the box, was her bloody heart ripped from her chest. The black ribbon I had tied around her roses was now tied in a neat bow around her heart. There was a note attached to it:
I can't live without you. I'm sorry. You've always had my heart, so here it is.
My words had driven her to the blade of the knife. It was less conventional than slitting her wrists, and had more of a dramatic effect. She always was creative.

Spin. Click. Spin. Click. So now I sit here in this dark corner, beckoning death to come my way. I've been playing Russian Roulette for the last hour. Her blood on my hands is something I could never forget, even with a lifetime of trying. I make another desperate attempt to bring about my end. The gun is cocked, muzzle in place. I pull the trigger one final time.
BANG!
Success at last. As my life is quickly fading, the blood pooling, I am content, consoled by the fact that all she is now is a ghost in my head, and a heart on the floor, nothing more, nothing more...