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The Bullet and The Rose	By : MrsSaruman Category: S through Z > Snatch Views: 1780 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Snatch, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Prologue
- 2-One
- 3-Two
- 4-16 December 1998
- 5-Three
- 6-Four
- 7-Five
- 1
- 2
- 3
One

Fuck London. Fuck this fog, fuck this rain, fuck the Thames. I roll over, settling deeper into my pillow
and pulling the blanket up higher. The
room is cold; the air feels damp. I
should have never left the window open.
The fog comes in off the river, rolling through the streets, coating
everything in a thin film of water.
Sometimes I slip when I go out.
My alarm
begins to sound, and I throw my arm out, forgetting I am not on my side of the bed, and I come into
contact with something hard and warm. I
sit up, twisting over my stirring companion, and heave the clock onto the
floor. The glass shatters and the
batteries pop out, leaving me in silence.
�You didn�t
have to go and do that, Shopgirl.�
I look down
at this man, this fine specimen of a man, and tell him to shut up. I snuggle deeper into my bed, wishing I was
sleeping in the middle of it instead of the side closest to the wall. I�ve been cramped and wary all night. I lay there, facing my wall, eyes open and
mind racing. My mouth tastes like stale
whisky. I rise, wrapping a blanket
around me as I tread quietly to the bathroom.
As I brush my teeth, I stare at my eyes in the mirror. They�re puffy and red and tired and hard. There is only regret as I spit violently into
the sink, thinking of the Glenfiddich and the hash
and the sex. All
mistakes.
He doesn�t
move as I close the window and crawl back into bed, leaving the blanket on the
floor where it fell from my naked body.
�Can I get
us a kiss?� the man next to me asks and I shrug, my
back facing him. He reaches over,
putting his arm around me and pulling me close to his chest. He smells like sweat and sleep. One of his hands travels down my back to cup
one of my buttocks. He squeezes. Hard.
�Y�know, if I could eat my own cunt I wouldn�t have need for
men at all,� I mutter, pulling away from him.
He seemed
confused. Good. �I need to get out of bed anyway. I have a shop to open.�
�It�s
Saturday.�
I
sigh. �The world doesn�t sleep on
weekends. You might, but Saturday is
when I make the most.� I sit up in bed,
tucking up my knees. �Get up.�
He protests
again, trying to get me to come back to bed and give up my body one more
time. I make a noise of exasperation and
get up once more. I walk around to �his�
side of the bed and pick up his clothes from the floor. I throw them at him.
�I told you
to get up, you lazy bastard. Get out of
bed, you shite!� I yell, then
stalk off into my bathroom.
The water
from the showerhead is warm on my face and I turn my head towards it. It�s a sensation I enjoy, although I can�t
really describe why. All those little
pricks of water hitting your closed eyelids, your nose, your forehead; it makes
it seem like the world has some kind of symmetry and that maybe, just maybe, today can be a good
day. It makes me feel like I didn�t wake up next to a veritable
stranger, or that I didn�t spend last
night getting drunk for no reason, and that today I won�t have to deal with Boris and pay him his damn money. Life goes on.
I soap
myself, remembering the hunger in how he touched me last night and how I fought
down my repugnance for the sake of feeling something like closeness. As he writhed on top of me I thought of my
expense ledger, my mother and her cancer, my brother. I thought of everything except the sensation
of him thrusting into me. I didn�t even
come. What is his name? Mark?
Matthew? Something with an �M,�
I�m almost sure of it.
The water
beats down on me again as I wash him and his scent from my body. My fingers run over that spot on my side
where Aaron cut me three years ago, and my wrist throbs from the break. Damn fog.
Damn weather.
There is a
knock on the bathroom door. �Can I come
in to take a leak?� he yells from the other side.
�No. Piss in the alley. Just get out of here.�
�So I guess
that means I won�t be seeing you again?�
I turn off
the water and step out from the shower.
I open the door, my wet, angry face glaring into his. �That�s right.� I curl my upper lip at him. �Have a nice day,� and I slam the door in his
face. A nice day,
indeed. I almost feel sorry for
him. Here he was, expecting a nice morning shag, and I just had to shoot him down. Well, I have to keep my image alive somehow.
I towel
off, rubbing the stubble on the back of my head. I have about three days left before it�s time
for the clippers again. I like to keep
it cropped short; nothing bothers me more than that prickly feeling of hair
growing out. I can�t remember the last
time I had a full head of it. Probably
something like, I don�t know, maybe five or six years
ago. That was around the time I finally
pulled my head out of my arse and started accepting
reality for what it was: cold, hard fact.
No more dreams and no more expectations.
Just live. That had been my philosophy
for as long as I care to remember. I
tend to block out anything but the good times from childhood and focus instead
on my life as I know it. I haven�t
always been so cynical. I was a happy
child, a complacent teenager, and a good university student. Then Dad got sick and died, now Mum�s sick
and living with my sister Mary, all the while muttering in Armenian about how
her children never come to visit her. I
try to make it up when I can, but I can�t leave a business for weeks on end,
and Mother cannot and will not come stay with me. I love my mother, as long as I�m several
cities away from her. We never did get
along well, thus owing for the few times I�ve gone to visit her. I was always closer to Dad, but he�s five
years under the dirt and now I just have me, myself, and I. Well, and Casey. But I didn�t know about Casey until a few
months ago, so doesn�t really count.
I look up
at the mirror and comb my bangs out of the way.
I clip them, a pink clip today, and forgot about them. They would need trimming soon, too. I lean over the sink and wash my face,
cursing as some soap gets in my eye. I
splash cold water upwards and rub my eye, squinting at my reflection through
soap and the water and the tears. I poke
my head around the door, making sure my one-night lover was gone. He was.
Good. I walk back into my room
naked, not caring about the open window or the fact that if anyone was in the
alley below me, they wouldn�t have to leave anything to the
imagination. I�ve always been proud and
open enough about my body. I could take
care of myself if push came to shove. My
closet door is open and I walk in, picking through skirts but instead settling
for gray slacks and a light pink baby tee.
The joy of working for myself,
I think. I could�ve done a lot worse
with myself. I could have ended up like
my sister, with three brats already and one on the way, or my little brother Mikey, fecking around at
university on my father�s hard-earned dime.
Or like my mother with her vacant stare and stories from the past.
Mike. That
was the bloke�s name. I bark a short
laugh. Funny to think
of that now. Must�ve
been my brother who put it into my head, with that same name and all. Mike had bought a Tec-9 a few weeks back and
I had liked the look of his broad shoulders, his shaved head, and his trim
waist. We made small talk and I could
see the mutual desire in his eyes. Last
night he had come in with a bottle of Scotch, good Scotch at that, and some
hash. I invited him upstairs and things
went from there. He didn�t even know my
real name. Few people did.
I am Shopgirl. That�s the way I want it, and that�s the way
it�s gonna be.
- 1
- 2
- 3
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The Bullet and The Rose