Florence French
According to The Art of War, one should always know their enemy.
Florence French had never really had any enemies – rivals, yes, but she didn't think she could bring herself to use hatred to discuss even the most heated of animosity between her and another person. She certainly had no enemies in the Milena Sable; how could she, when each one of them had been trapped in the casino without their consent, now forced to gamble on each others' lives? No, she could not bring herself to hate any of them. While they were all foes, the best she could hope for was not to know them, lest she pity them and grow to care about those who would soon be dead.
"Twelve of us left," said Aoife. "Surely, this damned evening must be coming to an end."
Florence didn't know how to answer her; she had, of the late, noticed a mean streak in the Irish woman she still could not understand, but felt as though this could not possibly be her true nature. Surely, even the fiercest of the people in the Milena Sable were not truly mean-spirited; they were simply playing the hand that had been dealt out to them. She wished each one of them the best, though a selfish part of her – this, as she hated to admit it, seemed to be the biggest piece of her mind as of late – hoped that they failed. She had never wanted any of this, but the things she would do for money had backed her into a corner. She was as addicted to finery as the ginger man was to his liquor; the only difference between them was that she was still in denial.
Suddenly, she missed the feeling of Paul's arms around her. That, she realized, had not been rock bottom: this was.
The fourth of the aces appeared before them in what Florence could have sworn was a puff of smoke. At this point, nothing could surprise her; she simply wondered just how much of a budget these people had been given for mass murder. There was something about this new woman and her wild appearance, composed of the most vivid of colours in her hair and eyes, that made Florence feel somewhat off about calling them a she, and yet their body certainly seemed to encourage her to believe them a female. They were gorgeous in the most striking and captivating of ways.
The lights of the casino went dark. Florence blinked and looked around her, making out several outlines that seemed to be reacting in the same way as her. The atmosphere in the room reminded her of fear, but the remaining gamblers were doing an excellent job of hiding their fear. Only Aoife, however, seemed to truly be calm. Florence guessed that she'd seen far more worrying things in her life than a little darkness.
"You'll have to excuse me for dimming the lights," said the fourth of aces, who must have been the famed Emerson Monroe; the other three had already passed, and their taste for the dramatic was well-known throughout gambling circles. "It just seems so much more sombre, doesn't it? And you'll see that a darker mood is much more fitting for our next activity."
Their voice was a purr in the silence of darkness, not unlike a cat hunting its prey, and Florence could not help but feel as though her days were number. "Florence French," they called, "it is your turn to spin the wheel."
They did not explain the game, but they did not need to either; if anyone in the Milena Seble did not know how to play roulette, they did not deserve to be standing there. Florence walked up to the wheel and bet on numbers she could not remember moments later. It was not them that mattered, after all, but the price she would have to pay. If she had learnt one thing at the Milena Seble, it was that, nine times out of ten, to lose would mean to die. How will they do it this time? she wondered. Poison? A gun? Will they run up to me and stab me in the throat? The possibilities were endless, and she was sure that there were a plethora of ways to kill a person which she could not even begin to fathom.
Emerson turned towards her. "Thirteen," they whispered, though they were not actually quiet; rather it was the same time of whisper that actors used on a stage when they were meant to be telling a secret, but wanted the entire audience to hear. "You win."
Just as Florence began to feel relief course through her, a gun was slapped into her hand and a dark smile appeared upon Emerson's face. "You didn't think it'd be this easy, did you?" they said, in the same whisper they had used before. "Oh, honey – have you learned nothing tonight?" They paused. "Go on, then. Shoot."
According to common sense, one should always seize any moment available to throw away their biggest threat.
Her hands shook as she raised the gun, so much so that she was not sure if she would even make the shot. Slowly, as though she were fighting the air to bring the gun up towards her, she pointed the weapon at Aoife. Florence had hoped for a reaction, but the other woman's face had stayed as calm as ever. She expected it, thought Florence. Maybe she knew winning would mean killing, maybe she didn't – but she definitely knew that my first reaction would be to go for her.
Aoife's face made it all the clearer that Florence should kill her and get it done with; it also made it obvious that she would never be able to. Behind the marble face hid a woman with children – grandchildren, even, whom she'd heard stories about over the course of the night – and a life of her own. Florence had heard about bingo nights at the Dublin Plaza, where Aoife met with other Irish immigrants, and the Sunday mornings she spent at church. Plenty of that could be a lie, of course, and doubtless plenty of it was, but Florence French was not the kind of woman who could take a life she knew.
She switched her aim to the right and shot, her arms steadying the moment she aimed towards a target she barely recognized and probably – hopefully – couldn't name. Florence French was not the kind of woman who could take a life she knew, but, as it turned out, she had no such qualms when it came to strangers.
"How dramatic," sighed Emerson. "Aoife Callahan, it's your turn."
Florence rejoined the crowd as she watched the woman step up towards the wheel, putting her bet in place. She tried to focus on the numbers, but all she could see was the eerie stillness of Aoife's face when she had been confronted with death. There is a dead body to my left, thought Florence, but she remained nonplussed by the knowledge. She wondered whether her face was as calm as Aoife's had been. It certainly felt like it.
"Another winner!" exclaimed Emerson, mock surprise painted over their face. "It's almost as though the wheel is rigged! Can you imagine? Why would anybody do a thing like that?" They paused. "Oh, well. Your turn, then."
Aoife did not hesitate when she took the gun in hand, but pointed it right towards her. I suppose I deserve that, she thought. Again, the woman's face was so calm that Florence felt as though she might be a machine, created to con others into trusting what could be nothing but an old woman. At any moment now, I am going to die. She closed her eyes. Three... two... one...
She heard the gunshot, but did not feel it. Rather, she saw Aoife's eyes pointed right on her, but her gun slightly to the left, facing towards the girl who had been named Sushi, who had dropped her sushi in shock. She was unharmed, and no bullet could be found in the room, but Florence had heard the message loud and clear.
The true gamble came with the gun, and whether or not it would shoot a blank or a murder – would the person shooting alienate a competitor, or rid themselves of one? Aoife smiled, and Florence realized that the real game had started, and the stakes had been claimed. Florence French was not the kind of woman who could take a life she knew.
Aoife Callahan, on the other hand, had made no such claim.
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Aoife Callahan
Sometimes I wonder how I would have reared my children, bless their hypothetical little souls. Would they have been kind-hearted, like my younger brother the priest? Drinkers, like my mother? Handsome, like my father and older brother?
Perhaps they would be wise like I am, if what I am can be called wise. Perhaps I would teach them how to read a mark, to deal a crooked hand that spells defeat for another player. Perhaps I would help them become cunning, eternally watchful and ready to twist a situation to their advantage.
I know they would not be lucky, nor would they rely on luck. In my experience, that is the closest thing to wisdom that any one being can possess.
It had been my turn to place my bet: a single chip which gave me the dubious honor of shooting someone in victory, or being shot in failure. I had forced my way through the hesitation; every con knew that a sign of weakness must be either totally repressed or carefully planned.
The orange-haired person by the roulette grinned with a shark's hunger, and I remembered myself at the beginning of my career, confident enough to smile and display desire for the coin of my marks. That had been before I made myself seem old and frail, when I could use other, more daring gambits to elicit the trust of others. I had been luckier then. I had also been a fool. In hindsight, I supposed they were the same thing.
My hair had been black, once. I decided the gamble of my lifetime would be black as well.
The chip felt far heavier than cheap plastic as I placed it on the felt. The person with a shark's smile spun the wheel, the little metal ball within clattering for an eternity. I didn't dare look at the felt, or the wheel, or the people behind me who might soon be dead by my hand.
It's a funny game, roulette, if it can be called a game at all. It's nearly impossible to cheat because it involves absolutely no skill. Everything about it is chaos, physics so mind-bendingly complex that no one on earth can predict the outcome or fix the results. My brother the priest would say that it was in God's hands. I would tell him that, unless Saint Peter was my mark, this particular fact was hardly going to matter.
Some would call an unpredictable outcome "fair." I call it idiocy, for to rely on luck for victory is the opposite of wisdom, of cunning, of common sense that let us scramble to the top of the food chain. What else would compel a sensible human to bet when they had no skill to wager, no way of affecting their fate?
The ball stopped. The Ace called out in a voice of languid pleasure "Red 27."
I didn't move. Though my eyelids never closed, I saw nothing.
Luck is for children. Luck is for the desperate. Luck is for fools. And no one in their right mind would call me lucky.
I briefly considered running, using the living bodies of my fellow gamblers to shield me from the inevitable bullets. The notion was dismissed in a flash— there were too many guards, and the bloody games from earlier had shown that our tormentors would kill us without a thought. I had little chance of fighting my way to freedom, even if I attacked the Ace; I had no idea whether that was a fight I could win at all, let alone win before I was riddled with bullets. No flight. No fight. No chance to lie and con; they cared nothing about anything I might be able to offer them. No plans.
Footsteps; the cool metal of a gun pressed itself against the back of my head. The hand that held it was trembling, uncertain. Quite possibly it was Florence, the only one here who knew I wasn't as innocent as I appeared. In any other situation, I would have pleaded in my sweetest, most grandmother-like tone for mercy, insisting that they didn't want to kill me, not in their heart. They would have let me go, I think.
It's the problem with being a con at heart— you grow so used to planning, plotting, and reworking that, even at the end, you still end up measuring odds, weighing decisions and hypotheticals and risk. You wonder. You consider. You imagine a tweak here, a turn, there.
If I had gotten that acting job so long ago, perhaps I still would be the same at the core. Perhaps I would be a liar, living in Dublin, a thousand tiny cons easing my way through life even as an honest career sustained me. Perhaps my children would not have been a supposition, an exercise in thought.
Perhaps they would have taken after their father. I imagined that would have given them a luckier, more foolish life. Those sort of lives tended to be the happiest.
I heard the quiet creak of a finger tightening against a trigger.
Another person would have closed their eyes. I didn't bother.
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Sushi Wasabi Salmon
Sushi stood around the edge of the roulette table, fingers kneading together, slick with sweat, and she hastily wiped them on the hem of her shirt before anyone could notice. There were eleven of them left now, including Sushi, all standing even though chairs had been provided. Already, one of the men had placed his bet, stubby fingers clutching so tightly at a yellow chip that his knuckles turned white and looked as if the bones were going to pop out. Her stomach growled as some weirdo ginger spun the wheel-thing, and usually, she would've taken advantage of Mother Nature's calling and focused on food and not the horror that was unfolding before her. Yet, this time, her mind was oddly sharp – focused, even. Thoughts of Donald Trump or sushi or Ariana Grande no longer crossed her mind. She didn't compare the new Ace to any celebrity. Why? Because a certain hundred-dollar bill burned a hole in her pocket, eating her away from the inside out.
The wheel stopped spinning; the number revealed to be a two. Everyone let out a collective breath as the gun stayed put in the new Ace's hand and it was the dark-haired beauty, Valentina's, turn. They knew how this certain game worked. One corpse still lay motionless on the floor, a crimson hole in the center of her forehead, blonde hair stained with blood. It had been Rafael's turn to lay down his bet – somehow, he'd been chosen as the one to start the game first – and when the silver ball landed on the number three, the number he'd picked, all believed that he was to be the first to die. This belief was seemingly confirmed when "the new Ace" – Sushi was beginning to wish that she'd remembered the Ace's name – pulled out the familiar silver pistol, but instead of shooting the ashen-faced man, he instead handed him the weapon, stepped back, and instructed him to pull the trigger on anyone he wished.
There should've been chaos, but instead, there was silence. She wondered if this was her punishment for stealing, for breaking the rules she'd followed all of her life. She wondered if karma was finally catching up to her, that she was paying the price for trying to run away with Rider, hurting those that she loved in the process. When the barrel of the gun moved towards her, she braced herself on the edge of the table, closed her eyes and waited for death. There was no consolation in the fact that the pistol was an especially designed for roulette, and that there was only one bullet installed. When the thunderous bang rang out, her entire body had jerked, but there was no pain. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. There were muffled sobs and soft shrieks, accompanied by the familiar wheezing noise made by Cupcake Maybelline Sprinkles, and a voice that undoubtedly belonged to the flaming haired Ace, barking, "Next!"
When Sushi Wasabi Salmon opened her eyes, Florence French was dead on the ground a few feet from where she was standing.
The new Ace nodded at the man, who looked extremely relieved that he was not going to be placed in the same position as Rafael was previously, and motioned for Valentina to place her bet. The number chosen was five, and the wheel was spun, swirling around and around as the seconds of the grandfather clock in the corner ticked by. Subconsciously, the girl reached down into her jeans pocket, letting her fingers brush against the crisp, wrinkled bill inside. In a way, the note seemed to calm her nerves, but it also heightened her senses and sent her heart on overdrive at the same time. It was almost frustrating how much effect the mere touch of cash had on her, but then again, Sushi loved it. Though at the trial she'd confessed that her motive behind her numerous robberies was Rider, and how she wanted to run away with him, there was a secret inside of her that she never spoke. It was safely buried six feet under, whispering to her ears that there was more – much more. She loved the smell of cash and the thrill of the chase. She was what everyone labelled a "good girl", but there was a part inside of her that wanted to be bad. The wheel slowed to a stop and the world held its breath, before a soft clang was emitted when the metal ball landed on the number one, and all was well – but only for a moment.
Because now, it was Sushi Wasabi Salmon's turn.
All eyes were on her as she murmured her bet, the number seven, and was handed a purple chip. There was no reasoning behind her choice to choose that particular number, at least, that was what she thought at first. But when the new Ace spun the wheel, her mind began to churn, and she suddenly recalled the first time she'd met Rider Black. Their meeting was nothing cliché, nothing romantic like in the movies – rather, they'd been locked in a petty argument when he'd bumped into her on the streets, which ended with him flipping her the bird and her muttering curses underneath her breath. She remembered how his dark, shaggy hair had looked particularly messy that day, and she'd even told him to go get a haircut after picking up her dropped bag because he looked like a "stray dog." After calling her a dog in retaliation, which was quite offensive because she was a female, he'd replied that he had an appointment at seven, and there was no time. When he turned to go, she watched him leave. The street had looked particularly wide, and she wished that she would never see that "rude boy" ever again.
It was in those moments that she believed life had a sense of humor.
"Well, well, Miss Salmon," the new Ace's voice brought her back to reality, and she automatically assumed that nothing had happened. However, upon seeing the stiff, terrified expressions of her fellow victims, and the metal ball sitting snuggly on the number seven, she understood. Suddenly, everything seemed to be happening in flashes, her thoughts in short, curt sentences. She'd won. The gun was forced into her hand. The new Ace told her to shoot. The temperature was frozen. Every breath she took was a cannon blast in her ears.
Sushi Wasabi Salmon had held a gun before, but she'd never pulled the trigger.
Rider had given her a forty-five caliber pistol during their first heist at a jewelry store. She'd protested, flinching as the cold metal touched her skin, but like always, his seductive, husky voice somehow changed her mind. They gone into the shop, hand in hand, and though Rider was the one who did most of the threatening and yelling, she never forgot the moment when she'd finished stuffing the burlap sack with cash and diamonds. Rider had yelled at her to hurry up, and she'd obeyed, but just before she could leave the store, a security officer had appeared around a dark corner. To this day, neither of them knew exactly what happened. The man had sudden vaporized, wearing an expression of dumb shock and surprise, like he'd heard the commotion in the main room and had come to check it out. Instinctively, Sushi had pulled out her pistol and aimed it right at the man's head. Rider had called her from far, far away. The burlap sack was heavy in her hands. The man had whispered, "Please."
Please.
"Please don't shoot me," her arm had a mind of itself, and was now pointing at one of the 'old Grandmas', with silvery-grey hair and brown eyes had silently pleaded for her life. "Please don't."
She could've shot the security officer all those years ago, but she didn't. Perhaps it was due to the fact that Rider had grabbed her by the arm and practically yanked her out the front door, or that she had never fired a gun in her life before. Perhaps it was a combination of those two factors and more. It didn't matter. What mattered was that back then, Sushi had a choice. This time, she didn't.
Please.
Sushi Wasabi Salmon closed her eyes, and fired.
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Addilyn Devella
If they all went outside the rain would have been able to kiss their skin and heal their wounds. The night sky would have been able to look down at them for one final time with its shimmering stars. Instead, all they could worry about was death's luring chant drawing them into its darkest realms...
The smooth black material felt icy under Addilyn's aged hands. As she adjusted her grip carefully her fingers delicately touched the trigger making her entire body shake in fear. It pierced her all throughout her body – like some sort of drug in her system that sucked away any hope that she had of feeling happy.
I can't do this; I can't take someone's life.
Even in her mind her voice faltered like an incomplete electrical wire whose current couldn't make it to the light bulb. Addilyn had always been a master of her emotions: she had always kept them in tact since her daughter had been stolen the night of her show. It was her fault that her daughter had been taken and now it would be her fault if this person died.
His almond shaped eyes were dilated in the dim lighting and his heart was beating in his chest. Had the gun been aimed at someone else he might have remarked about the symbolism of the moment: a lady so close to death herself being the one to administer it to young body. His short life truly wavered before his eyes from his first love to his pet cat that no one knew about right until he was thinking about all the books that he hadn't written because he simply wouldn't have time to finish them. But as Addilyn's weary hand held the gun a little higher – he felt that he had enough time in the world. He wanted to tell the old lady to lower the gun but he knew his voice would break in fear. Instead, he gazed into her eyes that swirled in the artificial light like molten chocolate lava and he felt as if he would fall in if he looked for too long. It was Addilyn who dropped his gaze as her eyes flickered towards the gun. The man watched her hoping that the bullet wasn't in the chamber because for the first time Adam felt truly and utterly helpless.
Addilyn felt like she had been holding the gun for hours and the weight was almost becoming unbearable. In reality it had been less than a minute she had been holding the gun. Two minutes ago she had been playing a game of roulette. Three minutes ago she had been betting on her lucky number. Four minutes ago she had been dreaming of winning the money to save her daughter. Five minutes ago there was another person standing in the exact same position as her.
Cautiously but daringly, Addilyn's swirling mahogany eyes flickered towards the body on the floor less than three meters away: the lifeless body that could have been no more than twenty-five years old. Her red hair spread around her perfectly sculpted face like a raging fire that had been extinguished by the previous unfortunate person to have won the roulette round. The dead girl's lifeless eyes stared up into the ceiling with an emotion that Addilyn could not register. She felt something hot trickle down her face and held back the urge to wipe the tear away. Sorrow wrapped its heavy hand around her heart and compressed it in her chest until Addilyn felt like she could no longer breathe. The same feeling she had felt as her husband drove away with her daughter.
She looked back to her potential victim. His eyes looked haunted as he focused on the black weapon that could end his life. He looked like he had already died – his skin had gone paler and his body was no longer shaking instead it was frozen in terror.
Addilyn readjusted her grip again until her knuckles went white. Her hand still trembled although she wasn't sure whether it was age or fear. Addilyn didn't have long left and part of her felt as though she was brushing by death's eerie shoulder. She could feel how close she was to it and the ghostly feeling made each hair on her neck stand up on end.
If you don't do this, you'll never have a chance to find her.
She gulped and tentatively placed her finger on the trigger. Addilyn could no longer see the man behind the gun but he was still there – similar to how Addilyn could not see her daughter but knew she was still somewhere. Addilyn's eyes were once again focused on the sleek blackness of the gun and her stomach churned. The whole room was already cringing and a single breath could not be heard in the minutes that had now passed. Everyone knew better than to talk. One dead body already lay at their feet and her killer was still standing rigid with shock.
Squeezing her wise eyes closed Addilyn willed her mind to another place only to be trapped in darkness. She pulled the trigger and waited for the bang to erupt from the chamber.
But nothing happened. A small click echoed through the silent and seemingly empty room.
Her eyes fluttered open and her hand held the gun limply. Addilyn didn't sigh in relief because she was shocked: shocked that she had, in fact, pulled the trigger on such a young life. She repressed the urge to cry as Emerson snatched the weapon from her fingertips leaving Addilyn feeling as if a bowling ball was crushing her chest. Short and sharp breaths made her heart race.
I shouldn't have pulled the trigger.
She looked at the man in front of her with her eyes full of guilt and pain. She met his narrow eyes that were widened with shock and she watched as his fingers wiggled nervously until he shoved them in his pockets. Her eyes caught the glint of sweat that had built up on his forehead and she noticed the ragged breathing of his chest along with the red rims forming under his eyes. She could see him shaking and she could feel herself shaking.
She blinked as she saw her young daughter appear in front of her – the crimson staining her red dress impossibly brighter as her face crumpled up in pain just as Addilyn's eyes glazed over with a layer of tears. Addilyn's scream was caught in her throat as she blinked again and her daughter, once again, disappeared.
"Well, that was anticlimactic," Emerson broke the silence in the room whilst spinning the gun around on their forefinger carelessly, "Come on, now, back to the table. I still have another round to lead," Emerson proudly stated but their emerald eyes flashed with mystery and evil.
Addilyn barely heard his words. Her numb body was still frozen in place as the room lurched and receded in front of her in a thousand different colours. She swayed slightly as a wave of dizziness consumed her and her body recoiled in anticipation of hitting the tainted marble floor but instead she was met by a pair of arms.
Addilyn hadn't realised her eyes were closed but when she opened them she met a face with enchanting forest green eyes and beautiful dark chestnut hair that shone like the girl was an angel. Had it been earlier, the girl wouldn't have bothered to help the lady but the girl knew the weight of the gun. The beautiful girl was the one to have pulled the trigger last time thinking that it was an empty chamber. Looking deeper, Addilyn saw the guilt in her eyes and realised that this girl had been in the same situation seven minutes earlier: only hers had resulted in the death of the girl who still lay on the floor like an unwanted doll.
"Thank you," Addilyn whispered breathlessly as she felt her racing heart begin to slow. The young girl helped her upright and simply left Addilyn standing behind the crowd of roulette players. Everyone was silent as the ball clicked and banged on the hard table.
Addilyn didn't join them. All her walls that she had built in her mind came crumbling down until there was nothing left. For the first time since losing her daughter, Addilyn cried softly into her beige coat. She allowed the guilt and grief to consume her body like it was a storm – just like the storm outside that awaited for a single person to escape and catch its falling tears.
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Dawn Everhart
Luck was rather unpredictable, and it came sometimes when you needed it, and sometimes it didn't. In ways, it was like the weather. Sometimes the sun shone brightly across the land, turning the grass to a flourishing emerald green. At other times, a storm raged through the land, destroying all with its fury. You never knew until the time came which one it was going to be. Dawn Everhart hated the concept, for it was such a fickle idea. It was unbalanced, and she could never calculate the possibilities properly. Perhaps that was the reason why she disliked it so much- because of the fact that it didn't follow math or science and it was just the way it was. Roulette was in ways, the king of all games of luck. There was absolutely no strategy, it was all about pure luck for any players. Perhaps that was the reason why it was Dawn's least favorite game- because it was made of only luck.
"Roulette," Emerson announced as their eyes glanced from one of the remaining twelve players to the next. "Is perhaps one of the best games of all time." Dawn winced at the statement, for she strongly believed the opposite. Luck had never been there to support her when she needed it most, why would it be there now? "Who's going first?" Emerson asked. Dawn glanced around her as she realized that no one was stepping up. She found herself sinking back into the crowd, melting as she escaped the Ace's gaze behind Sushi and Cupcake. She was just a dull little flower amidst a field of shining blossoms; she was not to be found.
Fierce green eyes met each and every pair of an array of colors. Dawn could see small fires inside of the dull green irises, perhaps of determination or audacity. It reminded her of a forest, whose green had once been like the glimmer of a jade. It had once been filled of life and beauty, only to be ravaged by a fire. It had crumbled to ashes, and the once emerald green had turned dull and darker- the color of the dead. An entire life story could be seen in one's eyes, and all Dawn saw in Emerson's was pain. Their past was full of agonizing memories, perhaps worse than Dawn's. They shared a similarity, a past they wished not of, and for that Dawn sympathized for the Ace. While Emerson shone with a facade of confidence on the outside, they was still a dying light in the inside. It was all for a reason that Dawn knew not of, but her only guess was Emerson's lack of a defined gender. It was sure to cause lots of rifts in their path, and perhaps it was the source of all of their pain.
"You," Emerson spoke, pointing their crooked finger at Addilyn. The woman looked slightly startled, but it was only for a moment, and Dawn was left to wonder if it was just a trick of her mind. "Come here. You're going first." Addilyn obeyed the Ace's command. She walked towards Emerson with small steps. Her silver hair seemed to be so smooth, swaying like grass in a breeze as she walked.
Dawn watched the Roulette wheel as it was spun. Her eyes watching as it went around and around. It reminded her of a merry-go-round, the kind that her father had taken her to long ago. She remembered sliding onto the fake saddles, and neighing alongside the fake horse as she had screamed in delight with her father as a young girl. She had loved those rides; she had loved those days when her father was the man she had admired as a little girl.
Looking back at where Addilyn stood, Dawn watched as her pleasant expression morphed to one of fear. Her features were more wrinkled, more aged when she was afraid. Her eyes clouded with shadows and darkness, and Dawn noticed the marble on the Roulette wheel. It had come to a stop, and Dawn realized that Addilyn had already placed her bet- and lost. Everyone's eyes were on Emerson who looked at Addilyn, a frown playing on their lips.
Emerson motioned for the elderly woman to take a seat. Addilyn, confused like the others, returned to the rest of the players. She had lost, so why wasn't she dead? Nonetheless, she was happy, for she was not yet dead.
Glancing through the crowd again, was Emerson. They found Dawn, and she could only wince at the gaze. "You," Emerson spoke. Dawn cried out inside of her, how could they have found her so quickly? She was just a raw fruit amidst a number of ripe ones, and weren't the ripe ones that always got picked first? Then she remembered, the raw ones were the first to be spotted in a basket of ripe fruits. Of course she had been seen; no one could ever hide from a watchful eye.
Stepping forward, Dawn breathed out loudly, but she wasn't as scared as before, because she knew that even if she lost, she would not die. Addilyn had been sent back, she would too, right?
"Red," Dawn whispered, letting her voice flutter in the air around her with grace; like that of a swan's wings. Emerson nodded, before releasing the marble. It traveled the wheel, navigating its way as the wheel spinned. Dawn closed her eyes; she didn't care about the outcome. It didn't matter to her at all because all she wanted was to stay alive. She wanted her life. She was still a young woman, with so much ahead of her. Was death really so close; near enough to be touched?
When she heard the soft clank of the marble find its position, she lifted her eyelids to get a glance. The marble shimmered in the light as if it was a lake of diamond, catching the white light of the glowing moon. It was next to a black eight, claiming that she had not failed. She would not die that day, for she had survived the game. Her gaze returned to Emerson's eyes, who smirked as they held up a gun.
"You've won, so here's your reward. You must use this Roulette gun to shoot a player in this room. Don't take too long, as we have so many more to go. The clock is ticking Dawn," Emerson congratulated. Dawn froze at their words. They wanted her to kill someone. She closed her eyes in regret. Perhaps for once in her life, losing would have been better than winning.
As Emerson shoved the gun into Dawn's hands, she remembered what they had said. Roulette gun. That meant that there wasn't a hundred percent chance of the bullet to be released. She might not have to kill someone, but there was still a chance- a chance that she was required to take. Glancing at all the players around the room, she realized that all of them were backing away, hoping to not be chosen. Dawn had to choose, and even after choosing, if the bullet was not released, that person would forever hate her. She would have put their life on their line. And to most people, their life was their most precious gold.
Dawn's gaze found the shimmering blue eyes of the man closest to her. It was Milo, the one with an alcohol addiction. Dawn liked the enthralling color of his eyes. Yet they held so much pain, like a still lake of sorrow. His past was painful, and perhaps Dawn was doing him a favor by raising the gun. That was what she wished to think.
When Dawn raised her gun towards his head, she saw the fear that consumed his eyes. It seeped in like a dark plague, contaminating the clean lake. He was afraid, probably much more than Dawn was. She closed her eyes. She needed to press the trigger. She could hear Emerson near her, their breathing normal. She could almost see them smirking at her. She inhaled before she opening her eyes. If she was going to kill, she would look straight at Milo.
"Sorry," Dawn whispered before using her trembling hand to pull the trigger. The noise that sounded made her jump, and she could only watch in regret as she saw the bullet slice through the air like a blade on a surface. It found its way to the center of Milo's head, and Dawn cried out at what she had down. He slumped to the ground, and Dawn closed her eyes as she tried to breathe. She had killed a man; she was murderer. The guilt would always be a burden on her shoulders and her mind, and the pain in her heart would stay for eternity. There was no water pure enough to wash away her sin, for she could not take back what she had done.
Perhaps there were worse punishments than death.
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Valentina Daley
Before today, Val would have never thought herself capable of murder. She had always been the "good" child in her family. The stereotypical angel in a house of boys who wouldn't hurt a fly, even though she played just as rough as her brothers. But now, with a gun in her all too still hand and an unfamiliar blank expression on her face, she wasn't so sure.
"Hello contestants." The sound of Emerson's voice broke the thick silence. Val turned to look at them, ice creeping beneath her skin. The air was taut, filled with a quiet sense of danger. It was waiting for something. "I take it you have enjoyed the banquet, the company, and the activities so far?" When there was no answer, Emerson continued. "Well, guess we'll have to blame the other Aces for that. I'm in charge of the next game, and it's going to be my specialty. Roulette." Val swallowed. "Don't worry, though. Even if you die, you won't have yourself to blame." At those words, Val felt her scalp go cold. Instinctively, she knew something was going to go very wrong.
There was the sound of someone cracking their knuckles, and Val's eyes flicked towards the people in front of her. God, why did this have to be one game I won at? The gun her hand was warm now, a little wet from the sweat that had now covered her hand.
Val watched silently as the first person placed their bet. Unsurprisingly, they lost. It went on like that for three more people, and then someone won. A sick feeling pooled in Val's gut as she watched Emerson approach a man with brown hair. Ren, she thought his name was, and she braced herself for the inevitable shot.
It didn't come.
Instead, Emerson smirked and handed the gun over. A sense of horror filled her as she realized that the Ace expected Ren to shoot. But not himself, someone else. Bile rose in her throat, and her hands clenched into fists. She wanted to step forward, shout that this wasn't right, but fear held her back. Instead, Val watched as the brown haired man took the gun, his face seemingly stuck in an expression of perpetual confusion.
Tension and fear filled the room like fog, and Val found herself desperately praying to a God she didn't believe in. Please, not me. Please, not me. Please, not me. After a small eternity Ren finally seemed to understand, and the shaking gun was being pointed at the oldest guest in attendance. Aoife.
The entire scene seemed like something out of badly planned horror movie, where Val was an extra and unable to escape. She couldn't help the flinch and the way she cringed when she saw Ren pull the trigger. There was no sound, and she wondered if she had momentarily gone deaf. Her eyes darted to look at Aoife. The old woman was still standing there, looking far more composed than expected, despite the fact that her hands were white from the strength of her hold on the table.
The chamber had been empty. This time.
Val closed her eyes. This was a nightmare. A nightmare that would go away as soon as she woke up. She didn't know how long she stood there with her eyes closed, but when she opened them, she was still standing inside the Milena Seble. She was still holding a gun. She was still teetering between the edge of victim and perpetrator. A choked sound filled the air, hysterical and crazy and almost unrecognizable as a laugh. I shouldn't have chosen three. Her hand tightened around the gun.
"Three," Val said, her voice falsely confident. The number was random, chosen because it was the first one her eyes had landed on. She felt no desire to place any other bet, and listened as the other players shouted out different numbers. She kept her eyes firmly fixed the purple chip she'd been given, and forced herself to breathe. In, out. In, out. In, out. She listened absently as Emerson announced that no more bets were to be made, and watched the wheel spin and the ball roll to a slow stop.
Three.
This is a mistake. It had to be a mistake. Val felt like her bones were made of brittle sticks, held together with glue as she struggled to hold herself up. Emerson handed her the same gun he'd given Ren, and she took it.
Val had never held a gun before.
It wasn't cold like she'd expected. Instead, it walked the edge between warm and cool, and was so heavy it seemed to drag her arm down several inches. Or maybe that was her imagination. The world stopped, everything turning to slow motion as the full impact of what was happening hit her. She had won. And now she had to kill someone.
"I can't do this," she said, shaking her head. Brown hair covered shielded her face, and she heard someone make a soft sound of surprise. She couldn't tell who.
"You don't have a choice." Emerson's voice rang out, loud and commanding. For a split second, Val considered turning the gun on the dealer. She imagined herself pulling the trigger and watching them fall to the ground like the others before. Her aim wavered, swinging ever so slightly towards Emerson before rationality caught up. She'd die if she tried, and if she didn't, her now greatly shortened life would become even worse. She had to choose someone else.
Sweat gathered on her hands, making her grip on the gun tenuous. Val's eyes swept over the other players, wondering how she was supposed to make this choice. God, she hoped the chamber was empty again. Her eyes flicked between each person. She knew none of their names, nothing about their personal lives or loved ones. Yet she was responsible for erasing one of them from the world.
Three. There were eight of them in total playing. Shame covered her in a thick blanket as she went in a line until she reached the third person. It was a woman, older than most of the people here, and with silver-grey hair that glinted in the artificial lights. She was small, and Val wondered if she was a grandmother or mother. If she had a husband that was worrying about her. If she meant the world to someone, or had someone that meant the world to her.
Val swallowed hard. Her hand shook and she closed her eyes as she pulled the trigger. There was the familiar and foreign sound of a bullet leaving the chamber, followed by a soft thudding sound. The gun dropped from her hand. No empty chamber this time.
Val wondered if this was what if felt like to be empty. Her emotions seemed to have left her, the fear and rage and confusion of earlier gone, leaving nothing behind. Like she'd taken some sort of emotional numbing shot.
For reasons she didn't understand, all Val could think of was the Harry Potter books. She remembered how it was said that killing someone tore your soul in half, and she wondered if that was what she had done. Torn her soul in half so that she was something not entirely human anymore. If, instead of Val Daley, she was now just another name on the long list of murders in the world. She could picture it in her disoriented mind, a list of names too long for one piece of paper, her being added to the very bottom.
Val Daley: killer.
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Cupcake Maybelline Sprinkles
"How many cares one loses when one decides not to be something, but to be someone." – Coco Chanel
Her whole life, Cupcake's definition on who she was had morphed and changed, like the seasons in a year. From the day she could walk and talk, she had been classy and fabulous, her head held high in pride for her own accomplishments, uncaring about others because they never cared about herself. Yet, when she turned fifteen and smashed her neighbor's Mercedes into Thomas Bunnings' body, her mindset began to reshape, though outwardly she still seemed to be the sassy, flirty, confident girl she always was. There had been nights where she would awaken, panting, forehead glistening with sweat at the same old nightmare of murdering Thomas Bunnings. Every now and again, her heart would squeeze painfully with guilt at what she had done. Sometimes, she would stay up at night and count the tiles on her ceiling, whispering different names under her breath, names for herself. Names that hurt, but were true.
Rude. Idiotic. Bitch.
She was all that, and much more.
Her dark brown eyes followed the wheel as it spun, around and around, the circular motion so fast that it dizzied her, causing her head to throb with pain. It had been a man named Ren's turn to bid, and he had chosen the number four. Now, his expression was one of terror and anticipation, for after an older woman named Aoife had won her bet three rounds ago, a youthful beauty by the name of Valentina had met her fate. Her body had been moved towards the side of the room, but the thick trails of crimson blood on the carpet was enough to make anyone's stomach churn, and for Cupcake, it was an all-too-powerful reminder of Thomas Bunnings' death. God, if I only hadn't gone joyriding with Candy that day...Her heart felt like it was going to burst at the seams, and before she could stop it, a tiny tear managed to squeeze its way out of her eyes. Quick as a flash, she turned around and swiped at her eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to calm her nerves. This was the most emotional she'd become in years, and that was because she'd finally admitted to herself that she cared.
Disobedient. Brash. Slutty.
She was everything that she never wanted to be.
The wheel slowed to stop, and the number the metal ball landed on was revealed to be five. A small breath escaped her lips as flaming-haired Emerson nodded at the man, Ren, before turning their gaze to their person to place their bets – a man by the name of Blorange. He mumbled the word "three" underneath his breath, pale face going even paler when Emerson spun the roulette wheel. He looked absolutely terrified, and it was in that moment that Cupcake realized she had to be one of the calmest persons in the room, despite her rapid heartbeat that seemed as loud as a beating drum. A quick glance around the room showed her clearly that nearly everyone's faces held an expression of horror and fright, or nervousness and anticipation. In the far corner of the room, an antique mirror hung, polished and sparkling in the fluorescent lights. In the reflection, she could see her own face – stoic, unmoving, completely expressionless. Her own face sent a shiver of fear travelling down her back – not because of what was happening around her, or the silver pistol glimmering in Emerson's hand – but because of the fact that she was able to maintain a poker face in the midst of death and destruction. It had been a skill she'd prided herself on for many years, not giving away what she was truly thinking, but this time, it made her seem blank, even to herself.
Heartless. Cold. Cruel.
She was all those words when Thomas Bunnings died, and she was all those words now.
A collective gasp that echoed around the room caught her attention, and her eyes widened to the size of an owl's when she saw that it was happening again. The ball had landed on the number three. Blorange's face was now as pale as humanly possible, and all eyes were trained on the ginger-haired man as Emerson passed him the pistol, repeating the same instructions they had previously given Aoife, "This is a roulette gun. Five barrels contain blanks, but one contains a bullet. Shoot anyone you want." There was a short pause for the dramatics that admittedly worked, for the tension in the room seemed to spike to a new high when Emerson finished their speech by drawling, "Because you don't have a choice."
There was silence for what seemed like an eternity, as Blorange all but stared at the deadly weapon that now sat in his trembling hand. No one appeared to be breathing, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sushi's eyes closed tight, her hands gripping the edge of the roulette table as she steadied herself on her chair. The girl looked like she was going to faint any minute, and to be honest, so did Blorange and half the remaining people. As they all waited for what the twenty-something-year-old man to make his move, the words and adjectives that others had used to describe herself.
Rude. Idiotic. Bitch. Disobedient. Brash. Slutty. Heartless. Cold. Cruel.
Murderer.
Because that was who she truly was.
A murderer.
Blorange Orange had his pistol trained directly on her heart, blue eyes full of pain and regret as Sushi let out an audible gasp beside her, lips moving but no words coming out. The weapon quivered in his hand as Emerson Monroe snapped something along the lines of "hurry up", but everything was fuzzy and distorted and warped, and she could not hear nor see nor feel nor smell in that moment. Her senses seemed to have withered and died as the seconds slowed, and all that remained was the memory of her conversation with Amanda Bunnings and her bitter, grieving accusations.
On that day, Amanda Bunnings had lost her son.
On that day, Cupcake Maybelline Sprinkles lost herself.
"I'm sorry," Blorange murmured, and his finger tensed on the trigger.
"I am too," she whispered, to the ghost of the boy that once was, the boy that she had killed.
Murderer.
Cupcake Maybelline Sprinkles closed her eyes, and waited for death to embrace her.