Chekhov's Gun

Chekhov's gun is something about drama where a gun is introduced in the first act and is fired in the second act and you shouldn't include things that you don't really need and it's supposed to be subtle and it's not a red herring and blah blah blah.

That is besides the point. I stumbled upon a page describing the Chekhov's gun "dramatic device" or whatever it's called and was fascinated about the idea of a gun just sitting on the table and seeing what the characters would do.

That morphed into this.


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There is a gun on the table.

There is a gun. It is on the table.

I am sitting, smoking my ninth cigarette. My hands are shaking. Breathe in, French exhale. Continue for several minutes. Eventually I make the ashtray overflow a little more.

Prescription for relaxation. But now my pack is empty. I bite my thumbnail and taste antiseptic.

I suddenly see him across the table. I knew he was there, I just didn’t see him until now. Suddenly I am embarrassed to be sitting in my lingerie from last night. My hair is matted with hairspray and sweat. I pull my hospital gown tighter, trying to hide any lace that I can. I slouch.

“So, what’ll it be then?”

I can feel him staring at me. My face is scratched from falling on the concrete. My makeup makes me look like the whore I am. I bite my nail again and think I am bleeding, but it is just red lipstick. It looks like it is dripping. I hide my hand in my lap.

I can’t see his face in this lighting.

I feel glued to the chair.

I feel stuck.

I feel.

How did I get here? I can’t remember. I just remember the mask on my face and “10, 9, 8…” and then nothing.

“So, what’ll it be then?”

I feel confused. My whole body aches and I have a pressing pain in my stomach from nerves. My garters are itchy and my stockings are ripped. I just want to leave but I can’t.

The metal chair is cold on my thighs. I cross my legs again. I can hear the man shuffle in his seat and pull out a lighter. He lights a cigarette. He offers it to me and I refuse. I can’t trust him. I don’t know why, though. I just feel.

The single light in the room is making me sweat. My makeup is probably dripping down my face in rivers. Normally it would mean losing a few clients, but I know this is not the time to be concerned about that.

He is getting angry. He asks me again, “So, what’ll it be then?”

I am blank. I don’t know what it has been, let alone what it will be.

“Do you even know how you got here?”

I stare straight ahead.

“You fucking whores. All the same.” He smashes his nearly full cigarette into the table and leans back in his chair. At least, that’s what I think he does.

“Do you know your name?”

“No.”

He hurls his chair across the room and the metal hits the concrete wall. The noise is loud, but I don’t flinch. I feel my eyelashes falling out.

“What do you do? How do you make money to afford whatever the fuck it is you do for fun or shits or whatever you call it?”

“I sell my body.” I am sore everywhere. There are even more rips in my stockings than there were moments ago. Has it been moments?

“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

I look down at my hands. There are cuts all over them. Were they there before? My nails are cracked. I have bruises and scrapes on my wrists.

He turns on all of the lights in the room. I flinch in the brightness.

We are in a room of mirrors. There are white porcelain tiles where the mirrors end. There is no door. I don’t question this. It does not seem odd. You just can’t leave. I know this, somehow. It seems familiar.

His features move around his face constantly. His eyes are on his chin, then his mouth is on his cheek.

I can’t look at myself in the mirror, but I see the outline of disheveled hair and running makeup in a too-big gown.

I look at the gun. There is a single bullet right beside it, dusted in ashes from the ashtray. The table is very clean. I smell antiseptic everywhere.

His face keeps morphing. I look him straight in his moving eyes.

“So, now that you can see more, what’ll it be then?”

His voice sounds familiar. I don’t know how.

I put my hand in the ashtray. The ashes turn into grey water.

“What is the gun for?”

He slaps me across the face. The sound echoes.

“Touch it.”

It’s warm.

“Who was your last client?”

I remember his suit, the smell of cigars, glasses on a desk and frantic, hushed moments in his closet.

I remember putting my businesswoman outfit back on. He liked that best: only the nicest for my regulars.

I touch the gun again. He smiles. I retreat my hand.

The feel of metal reminds me.

I remember my hand on the doorknob. I remember trying to leave.

“Grab the gun,” he says, “just fucking do it!” He is screaming now. My head splits.

The grey water swirls around the room and covers him. I am screaming. There are shreds of lace everywhere and the gun is in my hand. I fire at him.

I remember.

I remember the shot of a gun. I remember reaching into his desk drawer.

His body morphs and swirls. It joins the grey water. I am alone.

I remember him begging for me to save him. I remember him saying that they were after him. I remember him saying that they were coming to kill me. I remember him becoming someone else, but still with the same body.

I am not alone anymore. He is behind me.

I remember him saying he was going to kill me because he needed to.

My hands turn into liquid. Beeping fills the room.

I remember him grabbing my throat mid-orgasm. I remember him pushing me into the wall until my spine shattered. I remember him taking a piece of glass and plunging it inside of me before tearing off my clothes.

I remember.

He grabs my hair and pulls.

I remember being pulled out by the police.

I remember the ambulance coming.

I become more water. All that is left is a wet hospital gown. I see him standing over me. He grabs the gun and shoots me.

I am water.

Beep.