The room, concrete, barren, grungy, and neglected, the owners long gone. Piles of rat droppings fill the corners; the walls, dirty and chipping. Windows, painted black to stop the sun from peeking in on the scene within. One bare bulb, hanging from the ceiling, dimly lights the forlorn space.
Slowly walking in, a girl tenderly pulls out a shiny silver revolver and three bullets. She gently opens the chamber.

“He loves me,” she turns it one space with out putting a bullet in.

“He loves me not,” she says, sliding a bullet into the chamber with a disgusted look on her face.

“He loves me,” she smiles and skips a space.

“He loves me not,” she glowers and puts a bullet in.

“He loves me,” her face lights up and she skips a space.

“He loves me not,” she glares and puts a bullet in.

She spins the revolver closed. A boy in the corner moans, and her eyes flick up to rest on his face. She looks at her lying, cheating, boyfriend. Tied up, gagged, pitiful, and helpless, his blood shot eyes beg for mercy.

She gives a light, humorless laugh, “Well let’s hope you love me.” She carefully aims the gun between his scared eyes and pulls the trigger.