Bullets & Booze

A fistful of bullets and a bottle of booze. That’s how it started. A dare between me and the mirror. Rihanna was singing Russian Roulette through the headphones with a clarity that made me think: did she; should I?
 The sun had long since sunk into a tar pit horizon, the fire burnt itself out. I’d eaten the last of the chicken and all that was left was half a bottle of milk and a teabag. Great! And so I sat there looking at the tabletop rocking backwards and forwards on the chair legs; she hated me doing that, but she wasn’t there anymore. I hummed to the song, tapped my fingers on the chair’s wooden frame and listened. That’s when the music stopped and my time ran out. It was me and those bullets and booze.
 If only I owned a gun!
 
 
 

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