Three AM.
Two chairs.
One table.
A dark room. Shadows crouched in corners, waiting to strike.
Two children. Twelve years of age. One strong, handsome, cruel. The other weak, thin, feral. Maniacal eyes gleaming. A single shotgun on the table. One bullet. One chance. No winner.
Gently, she places her hand over it. He smirks. Grinning, fondly awaiting her death. Her eyes flicker away like fearful silver fish.
"Maybe this time," she remarks. Puts it to her head. Finger cradling the trigger. Her hand contracts as her neck goes slack.
"Dammit!" she hisses. Grimaces upward. Hands the gun to him. Watches keenly as he raises it to his temple. Grins once. Laughs as he snaps his fingers together.
"Shit," he says. Tosses the gun to her. She catches it, swings it to her head. Leans back. Closes her eyes. Hopes.
"One to grow on." Nothing. Tosses it back. Studies him.
Pulls the trigger. Nothing. Tosses it back. Studies her.
Two turns left. One bullet. One chance.
No winners.