Blogging · Fiction · French · Just stories · stories

Russian roulette… (3)



She couldn’t beleive she had pulled the trigger a second time.

You are real…

He burst in a loud though nervous laughter. When she had chanced destiny again, he had tightened his grip on her wrist by reflex, and the sudden pressure on her delicate articulation had chased any possible doubt in her mind.

Taking advantage of her confusion, he discretely reached up to her shaking right hand. He curled his fingers cautiously around the handgun, turning the barrel towards the ceiling, before slowly unknotting her fingers from the fire arm.

She didn’t understand why she had let him unarm her. She now felt naked, exposed and vulnerable. She wanted to cry. She wanted to sob, weep in his arms, let it all out and then get her hands back on the gun, and put an end to her unbarable pain. But the knot in her throat didn’t allow any tear to flow.

As if he had once more read her thoughts, he bent down, laying the gun on the low table, and standing back, straight and tall, in front of her. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her to to his chest, trying to comfort the broken bird he was holding.

Pressed to his warm body, she could hear his heart beating next to her ear, and the regular stomping troubled her. Even if he had kept calm through the whole thing, his heart was racing, and she almost felt sorry.

I have scared him… She thought.

No, he had been scared of the mess she was about to leave behind her. Nothing more. But still, the very smell of him was a temptation to back up on her previous plans.

For what seemed an hour, he just slightly rocked her left and right never letting go of his embrace. He was murmuring sweet little nothings in French, and when she asked him what he was saying, he replied that it didn’t matter, since she could have been gone. Twice for that matter.

But she recognized some of his words… “Ma chérie”… “Ma jolie”… And her heart ached, as if it could shatter in even smaller pieces than it already was broken. His sweet talk was like wind blowing in the ripped panes of her soul, making them dance around like ribbons.

She suddenly noticed she had started crying, and his navy shirt was wet with her sorrow.

Tenderly, he pushed her back just enough for her to gaze up to his face. In the dimmed light of the living room, his stricking grey eyes were waiting for her to look up to him.

Shall we sit down, Vivianne?

She nodded, giving him a yearning look. Turning around to head to the black leather couch, he let her free of his hypnotizing stare for a second.

A second too many…

She bent down in a flash, flushing his charms off her mind, not to be fooled by her crazy heart, like she had been so many times in the past. She picked up the handgun and slipping the canon between her bright red lips, she closed her eyes…



To be continued…


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s