Take the Gun, Pull the Trigger, Can You Do It?
"The gun is a pretty metal thing, trembling in your loose grip, as it waits for the bloodlust."
It's night. The moon is above, shining down, as he prowled through the room. His steps are light, his steps are silent, his steps are agile.
The silence, it was a golden thing, as he softly turned the doorknob and stepped right in. The world is silent, everyone is asleep, dreaming of a world much nicer than reality. Except for the boy, that orange-haired boy, with his hands trembling on a pretty metal thing, loaded with metal darts. His presence brought back the truth of the world, the harsh reality. His world is different from the one everyone sees, the night is loud. The night is filled with the sound of his heartbeat, and the sound of sweat dripping through his hair, and sliding down into his shirt.
The metal is wet, he notices. It is covered with his sweat, but he imagines that it's blood, with the rest of the red liquid painted throughout the room.
He moves toward a snoring figure, and he loads more bullets. More and more, they clatter onto the ground, one by one, and he stands still trembling, shivering, losing control.
"Clam down.." he mutters to himself.
He then studies the room, painted all white, for an exit. His hand scans through the walls, brushing them slightly, then he walks toward the windows. The night is black, pure black, with no moon in the sky, the stars sleeping along with everyone below. The room is nicely decorated, the furniture all white, with a circular area raised up in the middle. A luxurious black metal bed is placed right on top of it, it surveys the room like how a king surveys his people.
Standing close by to the window, hanging on to it like a lifeline, the boy aims the deadly metal, and his finger move towards the trigger. It shakes furiously before landing itself onto the trigger. He pulls it.
In the pure darkness of that night, one would hear a single bullet shot ring throughout the night air, piercing through the silence, before it fades back down.
The boy looked at the bed. He waited for that pool of blood, that red liquid flowing down, dripping everywhere, staining his target's pure white hair red. But that relief did not come. He stared accusingly at the stack of bullets on the ground. He didn't load it.
"S-shou-chan?" his target asks, as he slowly drags himself up and turns to look at the intruder of his peaceful sleep.
The boy panicked.
"Uhh--uhh, ummmm, I couldn't sleep…" he mumbled. His hands quickly stuffed his weapon into his pocket, and hoped that his white-haired target wouldn't notice the stack of bullets at the corner of his room. He knew they stood out against the pure white of the room. Was that the reason why the room was designed to be so eerily white?
His target laughed casually, oh how the sweating boy wished he could do so too, and said,
"Shou-chan's been watching horror movies again?"
The boy grabbed at the excuse and nodded his head vigorously in agreement.
"Does Shou-chan want to sleep with me?~" his target asked, teasing lightly.
"….Maybe." he murmured.
His target moved towards him and grabbed on the wrist. The boy couldn't help but twitch. He hoped that the person that was now dragging him across the room, didn't notice. The white-haired man made no sign of noticing the boy twitching under his grip, and the boy slowly and gently relaxed, and followed the man willingly.
The bed sheets were soft, inviting, and warm. It was a human's heat, not ice cold nor blaring hot, a mixture of the two, like heated milk on a cold, freezing, winter's day, where windows had frost on them. How nice.
And on that moment, the boy dared to yearn for a good slumber. Amongst the scattered white bed sheets and puffy blankets, in the tempting darkness during the night where a star joined everyone to sleep. And in the embrace of human, and their heat.
But he had a job. And the world's fate rested at his hands, his fingers on a gun's death trigger. As his target climbed up onto the bed along him, his hands felt at his leather brown belt nested between his shirt and his pants. He grasped the pounds of metal at his side, and silently slid it off as his sweat did the same.
"Good night, Shou-chan."
Silence then proceeded. This time, the boy made sure his gun was loaded with bullets, so that if he happened to miss at this distance, he could shoot until his target was full of holes and leaking of blood that would flood the whole room as he stood on that little podium, like the king. He, and he only, would live, in that silent white room along with the innocent white flowers beside the window, staring out into the night sky. Those flowers that stood among the red, oblivious to it's bloody surroundings, what a life the boy wished he could also live.
"Good night, Byakuran." He would let himself say this sinful name one last time, before his right to do so disappears into the thin black night air. He grips the gun tightly and points toward the sleeping figure.
"And, good bye."
A/N: Overused concept is overused concept. D; Reborn isn't happy with my creative juices. DX