Of Thistles and Roses

tw: murder, blood, references to alcohol and smoking

I’m going to die in this town. 

That’s what I think as I throw my cards onto the table; another ace, another win, but still it’s never enough. 

All the money goes to the landlord anyway, and the innkeeper, the barmaid - it even gets to the cleaners before it gets to me. We all know everyone here’ll be dead before they pay off their debt; me included. 

“Another.” The burly man sitting across from me throws down another crisp banknote. I nod, sliding the deck across the table toward him. 

He shuffles, silently. 

I watch. 

“What happened to your parents?” 

I don’t answer. 

“How come ya grew up in a hellhole like this?” 

It’s what they all ask. Poor kid, they whisper in quiet conversation when they think I can’t hear. Born and bred in the gutters and that's where he’ll die too. 

I know that all too well. 

“No-one survives here long, ‘specially not the youngsters. That’s what I’ve been told anyway.” The man’s eyes bore into me and I glare back. 

He hands me a pile of cards. 

“Why are you different?” He presses. “Why you?” 

“I dunno,” I shrug, sliding a jack across the table. “I guess I’m stubborn.” 

“I guess you must be,” His eyes gleam, and he grins. 

His teeth are perfectly, flawlessly white. 

It gives me chills. 

“They talk about what my coffin will look like, you know. Like I’m already as good as dead.” 

I don’t know why I’m telling him this. Familiarity, perhaps; people discuss coffins like the weather in this place. 

“I guess that’s what happens when the center of town is a cemetery,” he says. “How come you work in a tavern, anyways?” 

“‘Cause there’s no other jobs apart from gravediggers and we got more than enough of those.” 

“I see.” 

The Thistle Tavern, Inn and Gambling House has been my home as long as I can remember. I belong here, choking on cigarette smoke and stumbling through puddles of broken glass. Much as I hate it, it’s my home. 

And the longer I stay, the harder it is to leave. 

I grit my teeth, returning my gaze to the game. The man smirks; an ace falls from his fingers onto the table. 

Out from my hand comes two aces. 

“House wins.” 

I reach for his money. 

“You cheated.” His voice is cold steel, his eyes blue flickering fire. 

I’ve seen this expression many times. 

“You shuffled, sir. House wins.” 

“You cheated.” 

I instinctively lean back. His voice is a knife grating on stone - being sharpened, ready for a fight. 

“Give me the money, kid.” 

My hand slides behind my back, my sweat-slicked fingers crushing the notes, ripping them into shreds. 

The landlord won’t be happy, is all I think, as my eyes dart upwards to see that the man and I are alone in the tavern now; the rest of the tables are deserted. 

I didn’t even notice them leave. 

I’m so stupid. What the hell was I thinking? We closed hours ago and there’s no-one here, no-one left- 

The man suddenly slams his hand down onto the table. Cards fly into the air, three aces suspended in perfect flight, before they fall; fall all the way to the ground. 

“It was perfectly fair sir, you shuffled-” 

I stand up, backing away, hands clenched at my sides. The sound of my chair tumbling to the ground echoes through the empty room. 

The man stands up too. My heart pumps painfully in my chest as his eyes narrow and he advances. 

I expect him to slam me against the wall; to force the money out of my hand; to leave me black and blue and bruised; like others have, many times. 

But all he does is growl out words. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow. For a rematch.” 

I don’t hesitate to see if he’s joking or not. 

“We’ll be waiting for you.” I say, even though we won’t be. I don’t work on Sundays; but he’s new, he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t need to know that. 

He doesn’t move. 

“The door’s that way, sir.” 

“What’s your name, boy?” 

“I don’t have a name. I’m not sure if you’re aware, sir, but we’re closed-” 

“Sure you don’t. What’s your name?” 

“Ace. Ace Whitemire.” 

I may as well give it to him; I’m the only kid in this town. He’d find out soon enough. 

“Well, Ace. You were named accordingly.” 

I only nod. 

“It was a pleasure meeting you.” 

His words are lies shoved into politeness. 

“You too.” 

Really, it was a pleasure to meet him. His money’s in my pocket, after all. 

The door clangs shut behind him. 

-

With a sigh, I make my way through the sea of empty tables. 

Empty chairs and empty tables, that’s all this place is now. 

Even when the room’s full of people, it’s empty at heart. 

I kick a fallen bottle; it clatters across the floor before coming to rest against a wall. The wallpaper might’ve been white, once, but now it’s stained and peeling. No-one bothers to replace it, despite saying they’ll do it ‘someday’.

Quite a lot of the time, I find, ‘someday’ never comes. 

I pull my hand out of my pocket. A crumpled banknote slips through my fingers, drifting lazily to my other hand. 

It can be unfolded, it can be fixed. The landlord will find a way to glue it back together. 

Money, unlike people, can never be broken enough that there isn’t a way to make it as good as new. 

“Ace!” 

I whirl around; it’s the barmaid. 

“You’re wanted in the landlord’s office.” 

The last two words are a whisper. 

“What, is his assistant sick or something?” 

The landlord’s assistant has never been sick before. 

“I dunno,” The barmaid shrugs. “Better not keep him waiting.” 

I bite my lip, try to smooth the banknote slightly as I fish the rest of the money out of my pocket. Whatever this is, it can’t be good - but we had a good haul tonight, and money always dampens the landlord’s rage. 

I knock on the door. 

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

I hold my breath. 

“Come in,” drawls the infamous voice. “Don’t leave me waiting.” 

I nudge open the door, and step inside. 

The first thing I notice is the roses. 

I’ve never liked roses. 

They’re too pretty, too fragile. Drop them in the dirt and they’re worth nothing. 

I guess that’s why only rich people like them. A sign of status, I’ve been told. 

But the landlord don’t need roses to show his status. 

He’s leaning back in his chair, behind his mahogany-wood desk, hand resting on the handle of his teacup, eye’s unfocused as if he’s deep in thought. 

He swings his head around to face me, and his eyes soon unfocus again. He picks up his tea. 

I’m not interesting enough for him. I never was. 

“Sit down.” His voice is bored. 

I pull out a chair - it's the most luxurious chair I’ve ever seen in my life, yet I’m too nervous to enjoy it. 

“Did anyone that came in tonight,” He leans forward as if sharing a secret, “show a particular interest in you? Any interest at all?” 

My mind immediately goes to the last customer of the night. 

“Well, sort of.” 

“What did they say?” 

I’m about to respond when he nonchalantly adds, “there’s a man who wants you dead, and he’ll be coming any day now.” 

I’m on my feet in an instant. 

I know it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but… 

His glare slices through my skin. 

I gulp a breath. “Why would anyone want me dead? I’m not worth anything!” 

“I’m well aware.” 

“But-’  

The landlord slams his tea back on the table and stands up, to his full height. I never realized how incredibly tall he was - and it’s almost frightening, how he towers over me. 

“You and I have many enemies. Now listen carefully, boy, because-” 

I don’t see the knife until it’s already embedded in the back of his head. 

He gasps, chokes; I stumble backwards as he falls to the ground. 

A single drop of blood splatters onto my shoe. 

I stare, in shock, at the dead man at my feet. 

And then I run from the room. 

Out of my second bedroom window, I can see the coffin on it’s way to Cemetery Lane. 

It’s a nice one; mahogany wood, like his desk. 

Those poor gravediggers, having to carry it all the way to the cemetery in the rain.

The coffin looks darker because of the rain, and the water’s pooling on top and running down the sides. 

The tea goes cold in my hands as I watch it go past. 

It’s the same type of tea the landlord had, before he went into that coffin. 

I take a sip. 

The others - the barmaid, the cleaners, innkeepers, cooks - have been arguing for hours. 

Some think it must’ve been one of us. 

Some think it was assassins. 

No-one thought to ask me; I’m so forgettable they forgot I was there. 

And then others started dying. 

That new cook, then the old receptionist, then the man that tallies up all the money. 

And still they argued. 

And still they did nothing, and still people kept dying. 

A wave of tiredness sweeps over me. 

I take another sip of tea. It’s bitter, but it’s good. 

I wonder who’ll be next. 

I half-close my eyes; I can feel a headache setting in. I’m a bit dizzy, too.

Must be the lack of sleep. 

I raise the teacup to my lips. 

Huh, that's funny. 

Why does it smell like almonds?

-

a/n: this is very last minute - and really rushed, especially the ending - I just wrote this for fun, I haven’t gone back to edit anything, and it doesn’t really fit the prompt because I ran out of time :(( so this is NOT up to my usual standard, but I enjoyed writing it :)

also did you find the Les Mis reference hehe