Short Story Saturday: Red Roses and Russian Roulette

Short Story Saturday: Red Roses and Russian Roulette - Photo by Pixabay from Pexels
Photo by Pixabay from Pexels

Hello everyone! As part of Short Story Saturday, I have posted another short story, this one entitled Red Roses and Russian Roulette. Please enjoy.

She found herself trapped in a room devoid of any portal to the outside world. Each of the featureless walls loomed above into darkness and felt somehow as if they were closing in. A distinct odor wafted through the air. The smell of roses. It reminded her of melancholy and despair. Her eyes darted in all directions but was having trouble seeing. No illumination was offered save for the lone light bulb hanging dead center in the room. It swung on its own as if it were swaying in the wind despite there being no breeze. Eventually, though difficult to see, she saw the table lying in the middle of the room being flanked on opposite sides by two wooden chairs. Someone was sitting in one of them.

His skin was a deep shade of crimson. He wore blue jeans and a black shirt, the latter had a logo of some heavy metal band emblazoned on the front. Both of his hands were indeed to the point they looked like hooves. One of them pointed to the wooden chair opposite him. He beckoned her to join.  She took a step forward.

A hollow metallic sound reverberated against the walls and clattered throughout the chamber. It was as piercing as a gunshot. She was forced to cover her ears though it did little to muffle the sound. It was as if it was bouncing against her skull. Every step was agony. Several times she howled as she crumbled onto the floor in pain. Only to eventually rise and continue once the noises temporarily ceased. Not once did she ever think of surrendering. She was not the kind to give up easily. Her entire life was a testament to that. Something inside her told her joining this man at the table was the only way to find a means to escape. Pain, like always, was not enough to stop her.

Besides, she became more accustomed to the noise with every step. Slowly, she grew resistant to it and then later numb. Soon her torment ceased to consciously register even though, deep down within, its scars still incisored her soul. She finally arrived. It was then she noticed for the first time there was an object on the table. It was a revolver.

Her eyes slowly drifted back to the man. She pondered whether body paint could give his flesh that shade though even then, she would have been left with the question as to how paint could emulate the natural-looking blemishes on his skin. The product of an extraordinarily gifted artist, perhaps.

That was when she noticed the oddity with his head. It was completely covered with what appeared to be a demon’s mask whose color perfectly matched his flesh. In fact, it was impossible to discern where the mask began and his neck began. It appeared more organic than ever face covering she had seen previously, too. As the man breathed, the mask seemed to contract and move naturally as if it were a real face rather than one purchased at a local costume shop or even created by the best Hollywood prop designers and makeup people.

A voice grew inside her at that very moment. It started as a whisper but quickly grew into a shout. This was no man. Sitting before her was a demon.

His hoofed hand still was affixed toward the empty seat having not moved since he first pointed. Though he said nothing, she could somehow read on his emotionless face that he was insistent that she join him.

Perhaps this should have frightened her. Perhaps any of this should have frightened her. The enclosed room, the demon, the revolver, the darkness, any of this should have at least unnerved the woman if nothing else. Instead, the woman felt nothing. She often felt nothing. Numbness was by far her predominant emotional state. So instead of showing any kind of fear, she obediently took the seat opposite of the demon.

Immediately afterward, finally moving his hand, he picked up the gun with his right hand. He opened the chamber with a dexterity that should have been impossible for someone who lacked fingers and showed her it was empty. Then he reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a single bullet. It was placed into one of the chambers and the cylinder was spun. It was stopped randomly and placed back into the frame. He slid the gun to the woman. Then he motioned to her indicating he wanted her to pick up the gun and place it against the side of her head. She looked aghast. Slowly, she realized what was happening. Yet she could not do otherwise. She was compelled to play.

She picked up the gun. Sweat gushed from every pore. Her hand was clammy as she gingerly lifted the gun and placed it against her temple. Several times the weapon nearly slipped, forcing her to wipe both her hand and her gun against her grey dress that had on it a depiction of a crimson-colored rose. Her eyes never left the demon as she did this. He sat patiently throughout, unnervingly so. Not a single time did he flinch or twitch or exhibit any movement at all. It was as if he had become a statue. At some point, the woman gazed into his eyes hoping to find some sort of emotion. Anger would do, even hatred. Instead, she found nothing. Quite literally. It was as if she were looking into two featureless voids.

Staring at them somehow propelled memories of the past to flood her mind. Her father was an abusive man. “Spare the rod, spoil the child” was more than a mere expression but a mantra that guided his life. He used that metaphorical rod liberally. Almost any excuse was enough for him to apply it whether it was a minor offense such as spilling milk or a football team failing to beat the spread. Not just her but her mother was often also a victim of that monster’s indefensible whims.

He always apologized with freshly cut red roses. It was always enough for her mother to take him back.

She squeezed the trigger.

Click.

She slid the gun back to the demon.

In one swift motion, he picked up the gun, placed it against his head, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

He slid the gun back to the woman. She picked up the gun.

The woman did not feel a thing when her father died. He had antagonized the wrong people outside a bar and received several stabs into the gut for his efforts. The news of his death, especially with the suddenness and manner in which he died, would have been traumatic for most six-year-olds. Not for her. She did not feel sadness or relief. She felt nothing. It had all the emotional impact of just being told it was Tuesday. Deep down, she must have known it did not mean that she had escaped.

She squeezed the trigger.

Click.

She slid the gun back to the demon.

In one swift motion, he picked up the gun, placed it against his head, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Her mother may have been nicer than her father but it was only by miniscule degrees. Instead of physical abuse, it was mental abuse mostly in the form of neglect. When it came to meals, school, and activities with her friends, she was mostly on her own. Often the woman showed more care to her latest paramours’ gift of roses than she was her own kin.

The mother was also quick to blame the young girl for anything bad that happened in her life. Her late father’s ire toward his family? Due to the daughter’s poor behavior. He was such a gentleman before she was born. A bad breakup? The boyfriend was driven off by her daughter, whether through her actions or her mere existence. Money problems? It’s all her school lunches or after-school programs that caused financial difficulties.

When it was discovered that the young girl was doing poorly in certain classes, the importance of education was downplayed. When the little girl dared to suggest that she had aspirations of college, the mother was quick to crush any such silly notion. Even if they could afford it, upper education was not for stupid people. She should concentrate on getting a man.

She squeezed the trigger.

Click.

Five clicks. Five empty chambers. This meant only one thing.

Her heart raced with elation and dread. As relieved as she was to have survived her ordeal, it also meant the grisly death of her horned antagonist. In her head, she screamed at him to stop. In her head, she lunged toward him and slapped the gun from his hands. In her mind, she prevented his demise.

In reality, she sat there silently awaiting the inevitable.

An inevitable that never arrived.

Instead of pulling the trigger, the demon once again spun the cylinder.

Though not a word had been spoken between the two of them the woman somehow knew that this was not against the rules. Somehow she realized it was well within his purview to do this if it was certain that the next attempt would kill. He stopped the cylinder and placed it back into the frame. He pulled the trigger.

Click.

He calmly slid the gun toward the woman. The game had started anew. She picked up the gun.

Secretarial work is hardly glamorous nor is it very lucrative, but considering her circumstances, attaining it was an accomplishment to be proud of. Its wages also allowed her to rent a small but cozy apartment with some luxuries. The most important one, of course, was an escape from her dire home and away from her mother whose only interaction with her by that point was berating her verbally.

Not long after she started her career, she met a guy. A young man with a sweet smile who lived on her floor. Upon meeting him, for the first time in a long while, she was gripped with emotion. She felt as if she could melt with joy when he asked her out. It was a feeling that only grew stronger when she received an armful of roses on their first date. Truly, she was overcome by a sort of serene happiness she had never experienced before.

She squeezed the trigger.

Click.

She slid the gun back to the demon.

In one swift motion, he picked up the gun, placed it against his head, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

When the two decided to move in together years later after dating for quite a while, it was not quite the “happily ever after” she had hoped for and deserved. The young man turned out not to be the proverbial handsome prince of fairytales. Quite the contrary, unfortunately. He was verbally and physically abusive. Whenever she would return home late or seemed to be too friendly with another man, the two would get into an altercation. Her supposed beloved would always impugn her good character often before hurting her physically. It always started with just a rough grasp or a push that was a little aggressive but nothing too serious. Quickly, though, it would escalate to slaps and punches and angry shoves into bookcases or doors, down short steps, or into windows and through tables.

He was emotionally manipulative as well. When the young woman threatened to leave or call the police, he would threaten to kill himself. Quite often, he’d even go so far as placing a revolver to the side of his head. Each time, he told the woman that his blood would be on her hands.

She would always relent. Despite the abuse, she loved him even though he didn’t deserve it. Besides, he’d always apologize afterward and with a dozen freshly cut red roses.

She squeezed the trigger.

Click.

She slid the gun back to the demon.

In one swift motion, he picked up the gun, placed it against his head, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Five clicks. Five empty chambers. This meant only one thing.

The woman picked up the revolver and played with it in her hands as her sweat had mostly evaporated by that point. Similarly, her previous silent apprehension when this happened before was replaced with deep introspection with thoughts of her past, her present, and her future.

She was actually feeling proud. Just before she arrived in this room, just before she was forced to play this perverse game, she had managed to find the resolve to leave her boyfriend. For real this time. Not just a bluff as it had been the last couple of times when she left the apartment with her things packed only to return not more than three steps gone. This decision was made after a particularly nasty altercation that left her sprawling on the floor with a black eye and a cut above her lip.

Her boyfriend apologized profusely. He begged her to stay as she packed up her things and left the apartment. Unlike her previous dozens of attempts, the only concession she made that time around was to not call the police. Foolishly, she did not want to see him in prison.

As she walked out the door, several times he grabbed the revolver and placed it against his head. Each time he threatened to do the unthinkable. Only this time, she managed to ignore him. Lo and behold, his gun was not even loaded.

Tears still welled as she pressed the button on the elevator. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the young man curled into a ball weeping on the floor. To think, the two were so happy when she announced she was pregnant just a week before.

The woman, with resolve in her eyes, suddenly turned her gun toward the demon. She was ready to fire, scarcely believing she did not think of doing so until that very moment.

He did not flinch. His literally empty eyes seemed to express expectation, almost a yearning over this potentiality. He was almost begging her to shoot.

Why she did not, she could not say. Nothing was stopping her then much like nothing was stopping her from packing her bags and leaving her boyfriend for all those many years. He couldn’t monitor her twenty-four hours a day, after all. Her friends at work and even in the apartment would have helped too if only she would have asked.

She instead pointed the gun back at her head. Something compelled her to follow the rules much like she felt compelled to stay with her boyfriend. Was it love? Was it fear? Was it the years of abuse fragmenting her sense of reason? Was it something else, something impossible to describe? Who could say?

Not this time, though, she told herself. She removed the revolver from her temple and aimed at the demon once again. This time she would shoot. This time she would stay away from her boyfriend for good. The sweat returned. Her hand once again felt clammy. She was forced to wipe her hand one last time. Her finger began to squeeze. The hammer began to cock. It was ready to fire.

Then her finger slowly released the trigger. She placed the gun to her head. She could not explain why. It was not within her to do the opposite of her nature. The woman spun the cylinder. Why should she be the one to deliver the fatal blow to the demon? Leave it up to fate. With any luck, he’d be the one shooting himself. Perhaps it would work itself out. The game would certainly continue after her turn, that she knew. After all, it was a one-in-six chance. How likely was it really that she’d shoot herself now?

She squeezed the trigger. The hammer pulled back and was thrust forward.

Bang.

The woman awoke with a strange calm, almost tranquil. While still in a mild sleep-induced haze, she looked listlessly at her phone, as was her habit, to see if someone had received any texts or voice messages. There were, in fact, over a hundred different texts and voice messages. Upon noticing this, she first groaned. She believed it was the noises from the incoming messages that woke her from her slumber. Then she read one.

A second afterward, she hastily packed her things and grabbed her keys and cell phone from the nightstand. She did not even change out of her pajamas. With her purse in one hand and her luggage in the other, she sprinted down two flights of stairs until she reached the front desk of the hotel. Breathlessly, she checked out of the hotel. Though the clerk managing the desk at that hour did as requested despite the surprise considering the suddenness and the hour, she, like her counterpart earlier, mentioned she was deeply concerned over her fresh black eye and cut lip. A hasty and unpersuasive excuse was given. The clerk, unfortunately, did not quite have the gumption to call the police. Instead, she let the woman go without further interrogation like so many people did in the poor woman’s life.

She then drove recklessly home. This time she was sure things would be different. She knew he had learned his lesson. Without question, he changed his abusive ways. He now knew the consequences of his actions. It was not just a bluff. No longer would he hurt the one he loved so dear, that she was sure.

He had sent her the aforementioned hundreds of texts and voice messages but it was the last one he sent that said all she needed to hear. “Please, please, please come home. I love you so much. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I don’t even know if I could live. I just bought you a dozen of the best freshly cut red roses I could find to show you how sorry I truly am.”

If you enjoyed this story, then perhaps you’d be interested in reading more by pressing the “short story” tag below or clicking this(short story) link or this(genre and tags) link or this(story list) link. I would also urge you to share this story with others and comment below. Please check out my books page as well by pressing here. Thank you for reading my story.

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One thought on “Short Story Saturday: Red Roses and Russian Roulette

  • Very good. How do you know the psychology of abuse so well? The story is very realistic in its own way.

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