. ✧ . * . ˚ IT’S REALLY QUITE SIMPLE. The skull is basically a pickle jar. Just one really big pickle completely surrounded by pickle juice, and when you shake the jar, the pickle just bounces around a bit. Now take the jar, and put a bullet through it. The pickle’s pretty big, and there’s nowhere for the pickle to go. The typical injury by direct blow or crush of the bullet, whatever’s there for the bullet to run through — it’s done for. A permanent cavity. But God forbid that the bullet yaws, then it’s —
Daojian inhaled. He closed his eyes, shutting them tight.
Forget the pickle. That was a horrible lecture anyways, a woman with three Ph.D’s shaking pickle jars to explain how the head works. Daojian knew very well that the brain, under very particular circumstances, can survive a bullet. It’s happened before. It’s all physics. If the bullet velocity is high enough, there’s no side to side wobbling, if the aim is bad enough to pass the critical parts of the brain then there’s a chance for little damage. He could either just put the gun in his mouth and aim up, or he could shoot his jugular and bleed out.
He exhaled, really missing the help of nicotine.
There’s no use in one upping anyone else, the false confidence already filled the room. The people were all of the same. They all wanted to die, to some extent. He reached out to grab his glass of water, taking a casual sip and then checking his watch in the process. The drab jacket and oil stained shirt, the work boots, the long cargo pants — everything on his body was all he brought with him.
How assuming would it be for a jaded assassin to bring a weapon and just do what everyone wanted for them? That’s a story that’s been turned into a film, an idea demonized by parents, and hardly a reality for most.
The woman to his left snapped dramatically, finally taking the gun. Daojian got to thinking, taking another sip of water and then setting his glass down. It had been almost fifteen years since he last shot someone, which was out of sudden necessity. A good assassin knows how to use a gun, but a better assassin knows that there is far worse than a gun, which is one of mankind’s worst inventions in and of itself. To think that the great Wang Daojian stooped so low just to feel sorry for himself, what would the rest of the guild think?
That’s the thing, he’s dying anyways. His time is well past its expiration date.
she may not be the youngest – maybe she is – but either way, even if it weren’t in age, there is little doubt she is a child in other ways. it’s in the way she seems to be the only one visibly scared – eyes wide, can’t stop fidgeting in her seat. reluctance rolls off her in waves, there’s almost something unlawful about seeing such a docile-looking female shivering in a silent room.
yet, who else is to blame for her predicament, but her?
her eyes flit from person to person’s face, wondering what their stories were yet simultaneously vehemently restraining the curiosity. interest was bad. putting a story to a name – bad. the link would only remind her they were human, that if they fell over, dead, a precious life would’ve been snuffed out.
that is, of course, assuming she is last man standing. and that their lives were worth in the first place.
the first time the gun clicks, wendy nearly jumps out of her seat. dangerous actions, for such a trigger-friendly game. her heart is beating fast. this is definitely the worst thing she’s ever been part of. and the worst part was, she couldn’t quite remember what had led her to accept it in the first place. now, all that ran through her mind were the reasons why she should be alive. it carved an almost bittersweet ache. how ironic, that she could not have felt such hope and reason back when she was safe in her previous life, of a civilian ignorant to sadistic games such as these. too bad she fell into the trap as so many others had before, and continue to even in daily life – unable to find hope, until it was finally out of their grasp.
she tries to remember what brought her to this very seat in the first place. tries to ignore the faces of her mother, her father, her two younger sisters – so similar to her own, before they’re shortly perverted by images of a wound and blood streaming down their young, chubby faces.
but it doesn’t work. the heavy emotions that had followed her throughout most of her life – that had prompted her to participate in this game – had now transformed to objective facts, devoid of association and emotion. she is simply a girl, who suffered from nightmares that made it hard to tell whether she was in the waking world or someone else’s creation. she was a girl who couldn’t often tell whether the environment around her was real, whether she was fucking real, and sure, it made life terrible but surely anything was better than this at this point.
patch, where are you? a quiet, traitorous part of her mind questions. ah – someone she never knew was a figment of her imagination, a living being, or – what. what, she didn’t know. except that she saw him every night, sometimes every day, and while he made it hard for her to know what was real, she also cared too much to ever try to stop it. though something told her that she couldn’t, even if she tried.
funny, how parallel this and that were. stupid, reaching out to someone who probably didn’t exist. stupid, for putting yourself in this situation in the first place.
she trembles when the male next to her picks up the gun. for her sake, she prayed he would live. selfish, she knew, but she didn’t want to be seated next to a dead body. almost with the same reluctance she had for her own death.
though either outcome was inevitable at this point.
she suppresses a scream. this fucker, she uncharacteristically swears in her head. meeting her gaze directly was not a gesture she took lightly, and a part of her hopes he’s next – a part she’s ashamed by. and, as always, assuming she wasn’t next. and they say third time’s the charm, but she couldn’t tell if it meant dying or being spared in this scenario. maybe the luck of passing the gamble went to him, though by his nearly imperceptible sigh, maybe not.
then you should’ve given it to me! the yell echoes angrily, childishly, in her head. the superficial hope of luck in threes. either way, and in all possible outcomes – her chances were slim. everything was terrible, and she would say she wanted to die but then it might really come true.
her hand noticeably trembles as she reaches for the gun. why isn’t anyone crying? she wonders. why is everyone so quiet? why is no one making a scene? we’re at the end here, people! though, she wondered if she was in any position to judge, considering her own participation.
unsteady. weak grip. it’s painfully obvious she’s never handled a gun before. the guard takes a step, and she gives the most scathing glare she could muster – which is to say, not much on her features. the watery eyes, the trembling lip – they all give the game away. but she’s adamant that if she were to die, it’d best be by her hand. it’s taken her to this point, after all.
she doesn’t care that she’s holding up the game. she doesn’t care about how much of a child she looks in this moment, while everyone else looks like they have somewhere better to be – like this is a waste of their time, that they were bored – or maybe that was her judgment clouding her perception. this was between her and god, patch, lady luck, whichever deity existed and engineered her like a puppet.
she mimics the first woman, pressing it against her temple. her hand doesn’t stop trembling, and by now, tears have left her eyes. they stream down her face, and the previously quiet room was now sullied by her ugly cries and sniffling. you can do this, wendy, she says to herself in a soothing tone, almost making her laugh. imagine comforting in this situation. if it happens, it’ll be fast. if it doesn’t, well. you’ll be alive.
would her industry care, she wondered, if she suddenly stopped showing up. she wasn’t a big name by any means, but she had graced a couple of covers – would anyone look into the circumstances of her death, other than her family? speaking of – would they know? would they ever recover?
would she finally find out if patch was real?
yeah, it seemed a little inappropriate to imagine your maybe-imaginary-friend-maybe-demon-or-whatever person as a possible angel ushering you into the afterlife, but if it helped … and they say before death, you’d find peace, but wendy sadly finds that most untrue.
she pulls the trigger before the mental count of three is up, like a story she doesn’t want to end.
she hastily removes it from her head, but places it gingerly back on the table. her tears still haven’t stopped, and she thinks her selfish for wishing all the luck upon her rather than the one next to her.
