Only two bullets. One for him, and one for me if the first doesn't work out. If he lets me. There's every chance he won't, and I can't think of any other way this ends well. This doesn't end well.

That's the thought I'm deep inside when he walks in. The small bedroom is the space he lets me pretend is my own, so of course I leave the comforter rumpled just to spite him, and my hand buried in it is no concern. So he doesn't see the gun, and for a second I think I have a chance.

Maybe it was that thought, but he recognizes my intent the moment I move. I immediately feel his mind seize mine. It's arm wrestling but with raw will, and he's the champ. His will countermands my muscles, barely able to twitch against his command, dragging my thumb up to the clip release, dropping out my precious, so-important second bullet. He doesn't stop my tears. He never has.

Despite the futility, I drag the muzzle of the gun toward my own head. His mind forbids my muscles to do it, and it's like pushing a mountain. My muscles grind themselves to a halt, the unyielding strength of his will pulling my arm away.

He doesn't make me drop the gun. Maybe he knows that dropping it feels as much like death as eating the bullet. Maybe he feels safe because in my head, that bullet is for me. So when I give in and his mind yanks my arm away from me, it points straight at him. A finger twitch gives him the bullet meant for me.

I hadn't expected freedom at all. Somehow, in chasing the freedom I thought I could get, I managed to get the freedom I deserved.