Who: Esme (closed, narrative) What: Esme knows how to fire a gun. Where: 804 When:Before this. Warnings: A little blood, a lot of crazy.
When Esme was 11 years old, her father taught her how to fire a gun.
She hadn't had much interest in it at the time, not seeing the necessity of such a thing, but he'd insisted. They were Rom, and though this was America and they were better tolerated within its borders than they had been in Europe, that didn't mean people still didn't carry the prejudices of their ancestors. They were gypsies to them, and circus people besides. This morals of this enlightened world only stretched so far, no matter what its people claimed. If a dark-eyed gypsy girl disappeared one night, the police were only going to search so long.
So he pressed the gun into her hands and taught her how to fire it. How to take the safety off, how to aim it, how to load it. That year, it was her Christmas present.
For a few months she carried it around with her, a security blanket and a sign of her faithfulness to her father's wishes. But when nothing happened to force her into using it, not once night after night, she started leaving it at home, in the trunk she carried with her when they traveled, buried beneath her clothes.
It was still there, though rusted and hardly usable.
Emil's guns were clean, for the most part. Not all of them had been taken care of, but several worked perfectly, and she only really needed one.
She stood in a shirt and tight jeans. She'd abandoned her dresses, at least for now. She needed to be able to move swiftly, not be held back, to keep her clothing close to her body in case it was grabbed at. She had the gun aimed at the mirror, steady, her arms held away from her body.
She contemplated her reflection. She imagined the woman in the mirror was Helena, not herself, Helena with her tawny skin and gentle smile, pandering to her idiot husband and throwing herself in front of Vlad like a woman dashing in front of an oncoming train. Because he lavished compliments on her, because he was interesting.
She deserved it. She deserved what was coming. Only a fool would believe Vlad's lies.
There he was.
In her reflection, behind her. He was standing over her shoulder, watching, sad-eyed. He was wet, soaked through, hair plastered against his face. Disappointment.
She turned with a guttural sound, reaching behind her, but there was no one there. Slow. She hadn't moved fast enough.
She turned back to the mirror, and he wasn't there either. She fired three shots into the it, gritting her teeth. It shattered, and the pieces fell onto the floor around her feet.
It was bubbling up in her chest, and she couldn't stop it. Coward. Coward, coward, coward, why wouldn't he face her, why wouldn't he speak, why would he leave
She fell against the table. One of the shards of mirror had cut her foot. Blood was welling up around the gash, running over onto the floor.
She made a strangled noise. Laughter, she was laughing.
She stretched a hand out and rested it against the table to support her weight, laughter rising up, becoming more true.
She wouldn't shout, she wouldn't fight. Not with him.
He hadn't meant to leave her. No. She was very sure he would have liked to stay.