Title; Russian Roulette
Summary; Some people, no matter how much they have, just can't be happy.

His story, so short yet so long, might only last sixteen years. It looked dull in comparison to the stories of the people around him. To the stories of the old and wise, the successful, the happy. His story, many chapters in, over thousands of words, lacked anything to draw a reader in. Lacked anything to interest a passerby. Lacked any ambition, conflict, fulfillment, or novelty. It was the droning of an average story, the words of a world disregarded. But he wanted the ending to be his most exciting moment. His most exciting chapter; his last bang!

Grant, a boy of sixteen years, fingered the object in his hand. His dark blue eyes were glued to the black surface, the shiny exterior, the intricate designs. Shifting to straighten his posture, he felt his back dig deeper into the wall behind him, throwing a lock of brown hair out of his face. The window sill grazed the top of his head, the light cascading through the window, but keeping him in the shadows. One leg stretched out and hit a foot of the bed, the other bent to support his elbow. Dark, hideous blue eyes lifted to watch the door on the other side of the room.

This one story house, at suppertime in mid-July, was the current setting of his story. Outside the room and down the hall, a frisky, red-haired woman bustled around the kitchen. Outside the walls of this one story home, a man in suit and tie was most likely driving into the parking lot. Outside this home, this setting so mundane to Grant, was the world. The main component of his story, of his long and tedious story.

He chanced a look to the bag beside him, the bag attached to his being seven hours a day. The zipper was closed, the pouches forbidden, the life he held outside forgotten in that bag. In that bag was Grant the student. Grant the honor roll student, with friends that smiled and laughed, with girls that wanted a date, with teachers that complimented and bragged of him. That life he played, with A's and popularity, with admirers and enemies, with smiles and a friendly mask, was his one of many lies. His skin of many skins. And in that bag was his life outside this home.

A glance to the bedside table caught his eye, the setting sunlight glinting off a picture frame. A family of three - three smiles, three hearts, three souls, three lovers - stood in that frame. The glass sealed it from touch, from dust and from age, from love and from care. It secured the picturesque moment, the frame capturing the edges and persuading it to be real. In that picture was Grant the son. Grant the loved child, with a mother than stayed home and tended to the house, with a father that worked to support, with a home that warmed and comforted. That role he played, with jokes and familiarity, with closeness and fondness, with smiles and a loving mask, was his second lie. Was his role when he came home, when he slept, and when he left in the morning. Protected by glass and a frame was his life in this one story house.

Blue eyes averted to the dresser, to his left against the wall, where a drawer he could not see blended in with the others. The drawer second to the bottom, drenched in mahogany wood, underneath the clothes, held the items he kept hidden. Held the necklaces and jewelry, the dark clothes and jackets, the shoes he rarely wore. The attire of a rendevous, of a time drowned in darkness, of a person stealing away. In that drawer, with its secret touches and forgotten trysts, with its eerie calmness and its frozen mask, with its smell of dusk and dark weather, was Grant the rebel. Grant that stole away from this setting of his sixteen-year-old story, that lived outside this one story home, that walked and walked alone with schooled features. In that drawer, hidden under Grant the son, was yet another lie concealed under his mask.

His prominent persons, his loved masks, all lined up behind one another, protecting and savoring, no longer held him. No longer contained his pain, his fear, his grief. No longer saved him from the world outside these walls; no longer stole him away from the wickedness he deemed everywhere. His friends and teachers, with smiles and eagerness, could not help him. His mother and father, with proud eyes and loving gestures, could not help him. His darkness, with dreary weather and no living soul, could not help him. And with his lies unusable, secretly hidden in the room around him, what was to keep him sane? Without a title, a meaning to his name, what was he to be? Without a reason, a primary nature, what was he to do? A living soul, a striving creature, was to live and exist. But a living soul, a striving creature, was also to pass through time and let death claim it.

His head bent forward, hideous eyes glaring at the object in his hands, dark hair shadowing his face. A small, almost nonexistent, twist of the lips brandished a smile. He spun the middle, knowing only one of six spots held a bullet, and waited for it to stop. He clicked off the safety, pushing the only escape to his temple and lifted his head for the room to see. His dark, hideous blue eyes held nothing; his cruel, pale features held nothing; his broken, distressed soul held nothing.

A dim imagination brought forth his three persons; his roles of life; his lies. Another smile danced on his lips as Grant the student fretted and fretted and persuaded him not to shoot, as Grant the son shook with fear and calmly tried to back away to search for his familiar, as Grant the rebel glanced at him with a quirked eyebrow before walking away. But Grant, alone, pushed the gun further into his skin, finger on the trigger, eyes on the door.

His life, so short yet so long, might only last sixteen years. It looked dull in comparison to the lives of the people around. To the lives of the old and wise, the successful, the happy. His life, many adventures in, over thousands of events, lacked anything to draw a person in. Lacked anything to interest a passerby. Lacked any ambition, conflict, fulfillment, or novelty. It was the droning of an average life, the existence of a world disregarded. But he wanted the ending to be his most exciting moment. His most exciting adventure; his last bang!

He pulled the trigger and played Russian Roulette.