Three months ago, in a bar outside Philadelphia, I watched her give a college student the lap dance of his life; loose tendrils of black hair, leather skirt that inched high enough, Thunderstruck blaring from the jukebox. 

She finished the dance and kissed him, grinding up his body as she snatched a wad of bills from his hand. She went back to her friends, their laughter carrying over the room.

I waited until 2 a.m. to cut her off as she neared the bathrooms. We bumped shoulders.

"Sorry," I said.

"Fuck you," she replied.

That night, I took her to my place and we had sex on my couch. She bounced on top of me, head back and eyes closed, tongue sneaking out between her lips. The streetlight reflected off the bars that pierced her nipples.

Now we're here.

'Here' is Hill Motel, room 311. We set fire to my mobile home, filled my car with gas, and drove, fire truck sirens fading behind us. We have three grand on the desk, packets of heroin, and two bottles of rum. Elena sits across from me at the card table pocked with cigarette burns, and her silver revolver between us. She opens the barrel and shows me it's empty. She pulls a bullet from her shorts, winks, and places it inside.

"Let's play," she says.

"What game?"

"Secret Roulette," she smiles and takes a drag from her cigarette.

My eyes widen. "Isn't it Russian Roulette?"

"Nope," she exhales the smoke, "it's my game. You tell a secret, you pull the trigger. That way, it'll be like setting your legacy." She puts out her cigarette and adds a mark on the table. "Think about it, clear your soul before you die. I'm offering fucking salvation, but only for tonight." She's standing now, hands stretching out like a bad preacher on late-night television.

I search for the rationality behind the game, but my head is fuzzy from lack of sleep and every passing of sirens rattles me. They're looking for us, but so long as Elena is with me I'll be fine. I give her a smirk.

"Sure, I'll play," I tell her, "but when do we stop? We're not actually going to continue until someone gets the bullet, right?" She smiles.

"I'll go first," she says, ignoring me.

"I danced when I was little. It started with gymnastics, ended with ballet. We lived in a mansion on top of a hill. Our place had a huge lawn with grass like emeralds. I spun there, looking up to the sky and imagining that I could fly any moment. I would dance on the clouds, hopping from one to another, and flow with the wind. I performed and won trophies, and every pageant was recorded."

"One day, daddy got angry and pushed me from the top of the stairs. I fell backwards, shattering my leg. The dancing stopped."

I look at her legs and see the scars. I realize I didn't know much about her past. She picks up the gun, spins the barrel, and places it to her head. She shuts her eyes and pulls the trigger without delay. The click echoes in the room, not a single reaction from her. What the hell are we doing?

"Your turn." She passes me the gun. I take a breath.

"I married my high school sweetheart. We always walked home after school, holding hands. I had a good job, and we had our own place. I thought I found the one. Everything was great until I lost my job. The company let me go after the economy tanked. She had a wealthy client who was married. The bitch left me, the client left his wife, and they ran away with each other."

"Sometimes, I awake expecting to see her next to me in bed."

I lift the gun, feeling the coolness against the side of my eye. I try to remember all the things before this moment, searching for reasons I should care, and the only thing in mind was Elena. She's my reason now, not the woman from my past. She's guilty of hurting me. But Elena? She's innocent. I feel the weight of the trigger, cringe, and...

"Wait." Elena stops me, my heart beating fast. "You're doing it wrong."

"What?" My finger on the trigger loosens.

"The gun oughta be placed near the temple. That way if the gun goes off you'll have a painless death. You'll take out your eyes and feel pain if you keep it as is. You might even live."

She stopped me to make sure I'd die painlessly. "Okay." I readjust the weapon.

Click.

I slam the gun on the table. Elena laughs and claps her hands. Maybe I'm not thinking straight. Maybe we both aren't.

"See how it works?" she asks. I slide the gun to her, but hesitated on surrendering it. Chills run down my spine - what if she gets the bullet? I look at her and she raises an eyebrow. I let go.

"Okay, now me." She clears her throat.

"I met someone in high school too. A football player. Tall, blonde, square shouldered, and arms like pieces of wood. He drove me to school. We went on dates, even to prom. One night, lying together in his back seat, I asked him for a favor. I never forgave my father, so I told him about what happened. I asked him to do something about it. He drove to our house with a metal baseball bat and knocked on the door. Dad answered. He stepped onto the porch and my boy hit him in the knee. When he was on the ground, he hit the other knee and broke them both. He even asked if I wanted him dead, but I said no. I fucked him that night for the first and only time. He never heard from me after."

She raises the gun, takes a breath, and pulls the trigger.

Click.

She laughs softly, passing it over. I was getting to know her more because of this. A wave of questions floods my mind, but there's only one that I wanted to know right away - how many times has she played this?

It takes a force of will to pick up the gun, and my hand buckles under the weight. It's the fourth shot, and my body is trembling. Flashes of memories I hadn't seen in years come to mind, injecting reasons besides Elena into my life. The money, drugs, alcohol; was everything worth it? I think about our time together, realizations coming over me. Our love, if it even truly exists, thrives on lost hope. What if one of us dies in here? Cops come, investigate, and then we're an article on the newspaper.

She leans forward with lifted eyebrows. I start talking.

"When I lost my job, I called my friend. He told me to remain vigilant, keep fighting and something would come along. I tried to find meaning. I joined groups, volunteered, fixed a neighbor's roof. I did what I could for others, but felt nothing."

"At the end of each night, I felt lost in my dark apartment. I called him again and again, and we talked for hours. The last thing he told me one night was that he believed the greatest joy I could ever find was saving something."

I stare at her across the table and raise the gun. We could get out of this. We can take the money, drive to a small town, and start a life. We can escape, even if our love thrives on lost hope. I grip the handle, pressing the seemingly colder barrel against my temple. I slowly pull the trigger, my finger taking its sweet time.

Click.

The revolver drops to the carpet with a muffled thud. Elena doesn't laugh this time. She scoffs and picks it up.

I put my head in my hands and feel a headache. There's a reason we haven't died yet. There has to be. This has to be over. I shut my eyes, taking deep breaths. Elena's voice comes like music through the fog.

"You can save me."

Thunder fills the room.

I open my eyes. I can't move, the carpet is warmly soaked around my head. I watch Elena in clips of motion. Packing clothes, stuffing money in her purse, pouring rum around the room. She stands in the doorway holding a lighter.

She kneels, touches the flame to the floor, and blows me a kiss. Did I really save her?

As the sea of fire inches closer to me, my last thoughts are the words of my friend.

I've a feeling you'll save someone or something. When it happens, you'll feel something great; something that will bring you happiness. Wait for it, everything will turn out fine. And when that day comes, don't forget to call!

You're wrong, buddy. As my body is set ablaze, I feel anything but great.

o