[Trigger Warning: Guns, Mild Suicidal Thinking, Blood, Gore, Death.]
Clink-clink, click, sscchhhhnn.
They sit at the dinner table. It's... late. Or perhaps early. Regardless, it's dark in the Hallow. Dark in the caravan. The only light is dim, hanging eerily from the center of the table between the three of them.
It catches on the chamber. Unloaded, save for one.
Yorgrim has never been a gambling man. He's never had that kind of luck.
For once, he prays his streak of misfortune would continue.
He takes it, ever one to follow orders.
He doesn't know how this thing works, but his fingers move without thought. The barrel is cold against his temple.
Tension... relief. And then dread.
He puts it back in the middle.
A skeletal hand reaches out to take it next. It feels so natural in his palm, almost frighteningly so. Dexterous digits twirl the revolver inward, pressed to the edge of a boney brow.
Yorgrim holds his breath for him.
The dread deepens as the gun is haphazardly tossed back onto the center of the table.
Wooden fingers fold around metal with a stiff sort of hesitation, the kind of movement where you allow stress alone to puppeteer you. His hand shakes slightly as he lifts the instrument to press directly into a flower growing from a wooden forehead.
Wooden lips grimace to show wooden teeth.
Yorgrim bites on the sigh of relief as he snatches up the gun as soon as it's discarded. This has to be the one.
His chest is tight. His hand shakes as he slowly sets it back down, eyes darting between the pair left. He wants to scream. To run. To stop. But he can't get up. All he can do is watch.
The boney hand takes it's turn once again. Yorgrim tries with all his might to turn away, but his eyes are glued to the silver which glints in the dim lights. Tears well in his eyes as he braces for the pull of the trigger.
He can't claim to be relieved. He's lost either way.
The next man knows the odds. They all do. It shows in the way his fingers tremor as he reaches, and yet he picks up the gun all the same.
The metal rattles in his grasp as he cocks it, the sense of impending doom thick in the air.
In the long moments where he hesitates, Yorgrim tries to push past his silent and still spectatorship, desperate to stop this. But they can't.
The muzzle rests against the petals and stamen.
Yorgrim flinches at the sound, and he blinks for a fraction of a second. But the moment he opens his eyes, the scene has already shifted. Where there was wood there now is flesh, what's left of Billy's brain pushed from his cranium and onto the sheets of their bed. The air already reeks of blood by the time the revolver tumbles from lifeless fingers.
