In a sudden burst of anger, she rose to her feet, kicking the chair back with so much force it crashed to the ground.
"I'm not gonna leave you behind!" she protested, gnashing her teeth. Her fingers clutched the edges of the table for support. Thanks to the surge of adrenaline, she was able to ignore her shaking legs and fully able to direct her anger towards her brother's pessimism. "We can't give up! We'll just have to keep waiting for help and I'm sure -"
"No one will come to save us," he explained in a calm voice, gesturing around the cold, gray four walls imprisoning them, "We've stayed at this bunker for months. It's shut. Our resources have run dry two weeks ago. Neither of us is gonna make it out here alive. Not with the war raging above us."
"What if we endure it all for a little while longer?" she asked, fully desperate. She went over to the telephone station, the device resting in company of several scattered wires on a table below a malfunctioning old lamp, and picked it up. "I know the communication is a bit wonky but if we -"
"Wonky? It's not wonky, it's completely down. Since two months."
"It's – it's just temporary." With a flounce, she waved the telephone about and for a moment he was afraid she might drop it. "I'm sure some other government officials like Mom and Dad will come once everything is safe on the surface and we'll find a way out of-"
"This is our only way," he interrupted and calmly drummed his fingers next to the gun, putting emphasis on his next words, "This one bullet."
He was right. Only one of them was allowed the privilege of the easy way out. They had postponed this decision for as long as possible until it was time to finally settle this matter. She had always argued she'd never consider the possibility to be selfish and take the bullet for herself. Like earlier today, he had always tried to convince her of the opposite and she snapped back at him, causing once again an argument.
"I don't want this stupid bullet," she made a 'tch' sound and wrinkled her nose. Angered, she slammed the phone receiver back into its holder. A typical reaction for a stubborn teenager, finally acting more like her actual age.
As the older brother, he had taken the first opportunity to take the decision for her. That's what she hated the most. If he couldn't convince her, he'd trick her. It was his plan all along.
Her brother stood up. Light footsteps swept across the floor, approaching her slowly. Her eyes darted upwards to meet a pair mirroring her own. Soft-eyed, he firmly grabbed her by the shoulders.
"It's either the shot or starvation. Which one do you think is more painful?"
She averted her eyes. Her fingernails clawed at her upper arm, leaving marks on the pale skin beneath the fabric. It didn't hurt in the slightest. Starvation had made her resistant to any other pain than the one the rumbles caused in the pit of her stomach. The answer to his question was obvious. Left speechless, she had no counter argument at hand.
As if he tried to apologize for his harsh words earlier, he gently nudged her with his elbow and only nodded his head in reassurance.
"It's okay, really. We agreed that the winner takes it all. You're the winner."
"But ... but ..." she stuttered and her voice faded. No matter how much she'd argue, how much she'd try to deny, it was to no avail. The odds were against them and this was the bitter reality she had to accept.
"We've waited long enough for help. Let's not prolong our suffering more than needed." He pulled her into an embrace, side-eyeing the gun lurking on the table.
"I'd rather starve together with you," she leaned her forehead against his shoulder, taking a deep breath to hold back the tears. "Why do you want to shoulder the burden alone?"
If she took the bullet, it would not only mean he would be a witness to her self-inflicted death. He would be left behind, alone, starving. He'd be forced to take the much more painful and cruel death in the long-run.
"I know," he just replied, voice dry.
"Why couldn't you just let me lose like I wanted to? I picked chess for your sake, for fucks sake!" she cried out in agony. Shivers ran down her spine and in his arms, she broke into convulsive sobbing. Like a volcano, her bottled up emotions erupted.
"I know."
"I don't want one of us to die!" She gripped his shoulders, dug her fingernails into his skinny collarbones where once more meat and muscle had clung to his frame.
"I know."
"So why? Why are you doing this to me? Why don't you let me be the one to help you just once?"
"I'm your older brother. It's my responsibility to protect you until the very end. Mom and Dad couldn't, but I will," he explained, very tired.
"It's unfair," she sobbed, wiping her tears on his shirt.
"I know."
"So, so unfair." A small hiccup escaped her throat.
"I know." Gently, he patted the small of her back. Despite his own strength waning, he remained standing as solid as a rock. This would be their last embrace ever and he wouldn't let the opportunity to give his sister a proper farewell hug slip. He didn't want to be left with more regrets than he already had.
After she cooled down a little, he broke away, directed her to the chair and seated her down.
"If you can't do it, I'll do it for you," he suggested, offering her the gun he had picked up from the table.
"I can do it. I'll do it. Just ..."
Trembling, she took the black handgun from his hands. Bony fingers gripped around the cold metal. It was heavier than she expected. If it weren't for this occasion, she might have actually found the dangerous beauty in her hand mesmerizing to some extent, but the bone-jarring sensation that this would be the cause of her death weighed heavy on her mind.
To think this weapon originally belonged to her mother. At the thought, her stomach hurled. On their way here, she had fired five of the six bullets the revolver could offer. If only one more bullet had been left over, they wouldn't have had to go through this mental torture. If only.
"Just one moment," she gulped and watched how her brother sat down on the other end of the table with a nod.
In movies it always looked so easy. Experiencing it in real life, however, was the complete opposite. Nervously, she released the cylinder and rotated it to the side. Finger on the trigger, she held the revolver to her head, feeling the barrel against her temple. All of this felt as surreal as a bad nightmare.
She took one last good look at her brother and met his hollow gaze. The way his shoulders slumped, how he hugged the blanket tightly around his gaunt body and how his breathing became slower and slower was a heart-wrenching picture that would be burned into her mind as her last memory of him. So what kind of image would he have left of her when she'd be gone? Was there a way to ease the pain of saying goodbye?
What should she say as her last words? Should she pour out her heart to him in her last moments? Confess how sorry she felt that he had to suffer alone from now on? Apologize for all the torment they had to go through? Thank him for his kindness to spare her from being the one left behind?
When she saw him gently smile at her, she inhaled deeply. A proper farewell should be done right and if things were destined to end like this, she'd be as kind to him as he had been to her.
"I hope, in our next life, we'll be able to be siblings again," she snivelled, "You're the greatest family I could ever wish for."
With a painful expression, he nodded, lips pressed tightly together. "You too. I love you, sis."
Tears running down her cheeks like raindrops, she gave him one last beautiful smile, finger twitching.
"Let's play a normal round of chess, then. I love you too, dear brother."
With shaky hands, she pulled the trigger. A loud, single shot wailed through the air as she finished herself off with a coup de grâce.
His mind went blank, trying to come to terms with the new reality. Red dots dropped down to the ground. One moment ago she was still alive, talking to him and now her lifeless body rested in the chair with blood streaming down her face and hair. Teary-eyed, he leaned back against the chair, choking on the impeding grief.
The winner had taken it all.
"Sis ..."
As his hand touched his own cheek, it returned to his sight with a red smear reeking of iron. Blood. Hers, not his. His calm facade broke. Enraged, he threw the chess board against the concrete wall, pacing around the room like a crazed tiger. Devastated, he ran his fingers through his hair, pulled at the single strands to rip them out in tufts. At the top of his lungs, he screamed and cried out in agony.
His little sister was dead. She'd never speak again. Never laugh, argue or cry again. As the realization hit him, he could no longer hold back the tears and just let them run down his cheeks, depleting him of the spare energy he had left.
All the built-up tension released and when he became too tired to express his rage, he curled up into a ball on the ground. Pawns scattered all across the floor, he saw that the black queen had been snapped in half during his tantrum, but her opposite, the white king, remained intact.
Silently, he sobbed, all by himself, stomach rumbling. All he could do now was wait for death to come take him while he mourned. Whether it would be minutes, days, weeks or months away, he did not know.