Belladonna

1.9 ] Delicate

••●••

I'M NOT SURPRISED he lives in a mansion. 

In fact it was common knowledge. But still, he acts like it's an impressive thing. That his living space is bigger than everyone's. 

All I need is a bed. I don't get the dramatics of a workout room or anything else like that. He even thinks I should be impressed by it. That I ought to like it. 

"It's nothing really." He says leading me through the halls. 

I pretend to be in awe. Truth is I'm in a place bigger than this seeing the real life Mona Lisa, so, whatever. 

Ian Dickens takes me to his big, fancy prestigious office with a crocodile skinned chair taller than him, an oak desk wider than the windows, and many glass casings around the sides and walls of this room. 

I wonder over to the nearest one, noticing it's open.

"Ah," He follows up behind me, "I just got her this morning. She's a well known one."

I stare down at the revolver, instantly wanting to hold it. It's a shiny black one where my reflection is visible on the barrel. 

"Do people still use these?" I ask in a joking matter. Back at base everyone has handguns and pistols. 

"If they want," Ian shrugs, reaching around me to grab the gun delicately, "My friend from tonight has one as well."

"How expensive are they?"

"Revolvers in general? Four hundred dollars." He shrugs. 

I smile up at him, "And this one?"

He smiles back, "Three hundred thousand dollars."

Damn. 

Damn. 

All for a weapon that can kill someone just as good as the four hundred dollar one? 

"Your buddy," I clear my throat, "He also rich?"

Ian seems to get defensive. Quick. "Not as much as me. In fact I merely got this to prove I could get any gun he has."

"You must be very rich." I say instead of what I really think. 

He smirks, "Oh darling, very."

I wait a beat before asking my next question. 

"Can I hold it?"

Ian falters for a moment. Almost like handing over this expensive item to a stranger could be troublesome. Perhaps it is. 

"It's delicate." He says. 

"Aww, don't want me smudging it?" I pout. 

"No - just - fine. Here. Be careful." He grabs my hands, his warm, and places the item ever so slowly into my grasp. 

I make sure he sees me hold it with firmness. That he knows I won't drop it and that he knows I won't ruin it. 

"I've never used one of these." I breathe. 

"I thought Americans would be more comfortable with their guns." Ian lets out a breathy laugh. 

I put on a fake laugh with him, "I mean revolvers are pretty rare. Even for us." 

"Here," He wraps an arm around my waist and stands behind me, "Hold it like this."

He puts my fingers where they're meant to go. Clasps my hands in the right position. I let him take the lead, let him think that he's in control. That I am, in fact, no even a person. An object. A mannequin that will bend at his will. 

"Is it loaded?" I whisper. 

"Yes," He chuckles, "But I won't make you shoot it, don't worry."

He should worry. 

Ian walks towards his desk and pours himself a glass of whiskey before turning around and facing me, keeping continuous eye contact while he sips the drink. 

I've been putting up with that smirk for a good hour. It's time to get this over with.

I hold the revolver up once more, aiming it at Ian. This time I don't look like an inexperienced little girl. Or a girl in awe because of money. Or innocent.

Ian laughs nervously, "What are you doing?"

I tilt my head and smile, "It would be safe to assume no one knows you have this shiny, new, expensive toy?"

He swallows.

"And that you saw this friend who has an exact copy, same bullets, tonight during a game of poker?"

Every time he doesn't respond, I have my answer.

"Good," I whisper, "Very good."

"Listen," He starts the pleading, "I have money - I can-"

"It'll be easy for the police to blame your friend," I ignore him, "I mean, a game of poker? People are usually more sour than happy after those games. And rich people like you kill over this shit all the time."

Ian closes his eyes tightly, "What do you want from me? Why me?"

I roll my eyes, suddenly annoyed by the whimpering, "Your blood is what I want dude."

"You're sick." He whispers pathetically quiet.

"Funny," My laughter is dry, "Your brother said the same thing."

All of a sudden Ian is feeling less worthless. I can tell by the way his eyes flare and his eyes snap open. The way he takes a step forward, the way he lets his anger run hot and red.

"You." He says lowly.

I smile sweetly, "Yes?"

"It was you. You little fucking slut-"

I shoot him. In the chest. Somewhere near his heart, maybe not. 

"I'll give you this," My boots echo as I walk over to him, "At least you had some sort of compassion for your brother."

"They'll find your prints on the gun," Blood is coming out of his mouth in coughs, "They'll find you and they'll-"

"Oh baby, I'm keeping this." I spin the weapon in my hand. "It is quite pretty. And since no one knows you had it, well...I'm sure it's obvious what my plan is."

"Fuck," He hisses, "Fuck you..."

And then his eyes are rested in the back of his head.

••●••

Lmao what the fuck just happened.

Margeux's lifestyle:

- Juana.