We always used to play Russian Roulette on dingy street corners, cigarettes hanging from soot blackened lips, and morphine running rampant in our veins.
It started on a dark, rainy late afternoon. I was there, on the corner of that accursed grey street. You came walking down, a swagger in your steps, and with a freakish, stretched grin plastered on your face. It was the ruthlessly honest smile of one who didn't give a damn anymore. They weren't suicidal, but didn't particularly see the point of living. They lived for nothing. The whole ugly, terrible, beautiful world was something of a massive cosmic joke to them.
I knew that, because the same goddamned smirk had made a home on my face years ago and never decided to leave.
You glanced at me, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. I was used to it. After all, it was pouring outdoors, and almost everyone else was inside, the only exception being myself and the homeless guy down the street. Even he was covering under the sidewalk bench though, trying to avoid the rain. The rain pelted hard, each droplet lashing down on my bare face. But that was ok too. I was used to it.
Seemingly coming to a conclusion, you kept walking, right out of my line of vision. Suddenly the footsteps stopped, and I became aware of another body leaning up against the lamp pole. Back to back, we stood wordlessly and watched the sky get darker. It was a beautiful kind of silence.
When the streetlight flickered on, we left at once, both heading back to the shadows.
We met up at the corner again and again, day after day.
On the third day, the unnaturally harsh rain eased off.
On the fourth, you slipped two cigarettes and a lighter out of your pocket, lit them and passed me one. We took a drag together, and breathed out, watching the smoke mingle around us, obscuring the rest of the world for a brief moment. You looked vaguely surprised.
The wind swept in and took away the grey haze. So we lit another. And another. And another.
On the fifth day, you brought a flask of water, and I ditched a handful of poppy seeds in it. We chugged the whole lot, and spent the rest of the day in a morphine induced haze.
On the sixth, we exchanged names, and mixed blood. I don't think I realised until later that you might have seen my finger knitting itself back together, far faster than yours.
On the seventh day, you didn't turn up. The rain returned, and I stood on the corner by myself, unable to light a cigarette in the downpour. I slashed my wrists instead, and watched the pavement stain an ugly, ugly red.
On the eighth day, you returned, a smile across your face. You questioned me on my long face, and I remained silent. He didn't seem to realise the brownish tint of the pavement either. We stood in silence.
'You believe in hell?' I asked.
'Nope. What's in your bag?' you gestured to the white sack slung over my shoulder. I easily suppressed the massive grin I could feel rising onto my features.
'Ah. You feeling lucky today?'
'Nah, but whatever. What's in that bag?' I slid out a revolver and a single shiny bullet, reveling in the feel of the cold, smooth metal on my equally chilled skin.
'Russian roulette?' you nodded, the barest flicker of excitement on your face.
I loaded the gun and passed it to you. You spun the barrel, cocked the gun, and pointed it at your head.
'Wish me luck?' you asked cockily. I nodded, and watched you pull the trigger. As you collapsed onto the curb, it struck me that the colour of your blood complimented mine beautifully.
I picked up the gun, glad that you hadn't gotten it too dirty. Just another bloodstain. It'd come off easily, and be just another invisible mark on the gleaming, seamless metal.
I bent down and whispered in your ear. "You know, I don't believe in hell either."
And I left, leaving the pounding rain to wash the blood off the pavement, like it always did.