Short, Adorable, and Morbid.

He spins the chamber or the revolver and puts the barrel to his head. With a smile he pulls the trigger. Click. Michael laughs weakly and slides the gun across the table to the ass who made him play the game on a daily basis. The man checks the chamber to see if the bullet is still in there, as Michael had taken to sliding the bullet down his sleeve when Mister wasn’t looking.
Mister… What a weird name to call yourself. Is he trying to be “cool” or “spooky”? Maybe he had seen it in a movie once. Who cares. I’m pretty sure that after a week of nonstop suicide games it’s common kidnapper etiquette to at least give a first name.
It didn’t matter. There were enough rounds in Mister’s pocket to get out of the room at least. And with any luck this round of the game would kill Mister and he wouldn’t have to stain his hands at all.
Click.
FUCK!!!
Mister slid the gun across the table to Michael with a grin on his chubby face. He picked the gun up and cocked the trigger back but instead of pointing it at his head he jumped over the table and landed feet first on the man’s chest, knocking his smug, fat ass to the floor.  Putting the gun to Mister’s head with a slightly twisted grin on his face but the grin faltered when he saw the man sporting an even broader one.
Mister held up the round that was supposed to be in the chamber of the gun.
That fast asshole stole my trick…
Without hesitation Michael quickly tossed the gun in the air catching it by the barrel and slammed the but of the gun into the man’s temple over and over and over until the man’s skull caved in, and even then he didn’t stop swinging. He merely switched sides.
With Mister’s head nothing but itty bitty bits of skull in a drying pool of blood, Michael took the bullet from his hand and loaded it. He spun the chamber, “One last round, you worthless fuck.” He put the gun to his head, cocked it, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
_______
Michael screamed and grasped at the empty space in front of him and almost rolled off of his bed .
How long will I have to live with these dreams?
It had been two years since his kidnapping and he still dreamt about it frequently enough that his parents were starting to worry about him. He hadn’t told them, or ANYONE for that matter, that he had been kidnapped. He had set fire to the house and burned everything and made sure it looked as if Mister’s head had been crushed by falling lumber.
It’s over. Just go back to sleep. He’s dead and you’re alive. Just go to sleep.
He looked at his alarm clock: 5am. “Fuck it.” He flung his covers off and sat there for a moment, half naked, drenched in sweat, his heart thumping blast beats inside his chest. Groaning he got up and went to his dresser and pulled out his black skinnies and boxers. As he slid off his pajama bottoms he took a moment to admire himself in his mirror.
I don’t look TOO bad I guess…
He brushed his bangs out of his face and pulled his boxers and pants on. As he groped the top of his dresser looking for his studded belts he felt a sharp pain. Recoiling, he squinted into the darkness and made out the faint outline of the razorblade he had become friends with over the past few years. “So that’s where you went you sneaky little bugger…” He pocketed it. Finding his belts he methodically put them on. First one through the loops, the other 5 hanging at angles across his hips, interwoven, and overlapping. He slid open the top drawer and slid his hand along the inside looking for his bracelets and wrist bands. As he put them on he looked through the darkness at the partially healed scars that covered his wrists. Sighing, he slid the last band into place. “There we go.”
By now the early morning light was shining through the basement window and he could see the glint of his lip ring on the floor.
How the- wait… oh yeah. Haha. Nevermind.
It had been a  weird day yesterday and he had just kind of taken everything off and threw it across the room. He put the ring in his lip  and looked at himself in the mirror again. He shook his long hair into his face and smiled as he put on the hoodie he had “stolen” from his friend Amanda a year ago. He looked at the broken heart he had stitched the left side of the chest and smiled. He zipped it halfway and walked up the stairs to the kitchen. When he opened the door he saw 10 girls sitting around the table.
Oh yeah, Amy had a slumber party… greaaaaaaaaaaat….
With half of the girls looking at him disgusted and the other half looking rather hungrily at him he quickly made his way to the bathroom and shut and locked the door. When he turned around he jumped and almost screamed but contained himself. He smiled and pulled the girl into his arms, hugging her close to him. She giggled a little and pulled away from him holding up his eyeliner, “Looking for this?” she said as she waved it in front of his nose in much the same way he’d wave a cigarette under his friend Aiden’s nose to wake him up after a particularly crazy party. He smiled and snatched it from her and kissed her quickly on the cheek. “How’d you get in? Better yet, why are you up?”
“You’re parents let me in, stupid. And I’m up ‘cause I wanted to see you.” She smiled that adorable smile that made his heart melt every time. Playfully placing a finger on his chest over the broken heart on the hoodie she said in a soft, pouty voice, “You really have to get this fixed, you know.”
I love this girl…
Putting his eyeliner on was incredibly hard with Sarah criticizing it. He washed it off at least a dozen times and smudged it at least a dozen more from laughing from the faces she made in the mirror at him.
When he FINALLY got done with his make up he unlocked the bathroom door and saw 5 girls standing there pretending not to have been listening through the door. “It seems you have a fan-group, Hun.” Sarah said trying not to laugh. He gave the girls a half smile and moved past pulling Sarah with by her hand.
Despite the dream, despite everything he’d gone through and everything holding him back, today, at least today, was looking good.