I’m pulled from the octagon, feeling weightless, as two guards guide me into the lit hallway, the name Marone gave me still being chanted in the other room. “You earned me almost fifteen grand tonight. Good fight, kid.”
Good fight, the mustached guard, Vince, is his actual name, says, praising me as if this wasn’t the fifty-seventh kid I gutted. For the first two months, vomit would rip through my throat when the body hit the ground, another life ended by my hand. Now, almost seven months after that first kill, there’s nothing left to feel.
They let me keep the blade after every fight. I use it as they drag me off to somewhere new to drag it against the outside of my thigh. Fifty-seven.
Fifty-seven boys. Fifty-seven slashes.
Fifty-seven reminders.
“You’re going to give yourself one nasty fucking infection if you keep doing that shit,” Vince comments.
Good.
Maybe I’ll fucking die.
I tell myself that’s what I want, but then I’m pulled back into the ring, and suddenly everything changes. There’s an instinct built into all of us to survive. I try to ignore it, but I’m weak.
“Where are we going?” I wasn’t going to ask, but then our route changed drastically—polished hallways turned into something more… homey. I was expecting to be brought down the same corridor into the elevator I hate so much. I wanted to sleep.
I wanted my cage.
“Boss is giving you a treat,” Vince says while the other guard snickers. “Good dogs get rewarded.”
My fingers twitched to flick the blade into his side, but I held myself back, remembering how the butt of his gun felt as it cracked my skull. Only recently has the tenderness subsided. I don’t need to feel it again so soon.
Walking down the hall, we pass a series of rooms with grunts and groans crying inside them, stopping when we reach the one at the end of the hall. I tuck the blade into my ruined waistband as Vince unlocks the door. I’m pushed through by the younger, cockier one, stumbling over the soft carpet. From behind us, Vince’s walkie-talkie goes off, a staticky voice barely coming through. I don’t know what’s being said, but Vince seems to understand, a stern, “Be right there” spitting from his lips.
“Stupid fucks can’t do anything right,” he mumbles to himself before turning to his partner. “Watch him, Ramirez. Hannidy and Culver are on their way now with the package. Make sure everything runs smoothly. Don’t let them fuck anything up!” Those were his final words before storming out, the door slamming behind him.
Once Vince is gone, the two of us stand in the middle of the room, neither saying a word. I take in the space, slight confusion sinking in. A fluffy carpet, a well-used chair, a lamp, and a bar with some drinks and nuts take up the central part of the room. There, just beyond a dark hallway, I make out two other doors.
“What’s in there?”
“Go see for yourself while there’s still time,” the guard says, pouring himself a drink.
It doesn’t feel like a trap like so many others have before, so I decide to take his word for it and look. On the right is an empty bedroom, minus the simple, thin mattress in the center. On the left is a bathroom equipped with hotel-sized toiletries, towels, and clothes. I run to those first.
Soft and clean.
“Are these for me?” I ask, delicately holding the plain white shirt and gray sweats.
“Yup,” he says from across the room.
I’ve been wearing the same ruined clothes since Marone first brought me here. They’re covered in various bodily fluids, mine and others. They’ve been ripped, slashed, and hosed over and over, but never cleaned.
I haven’t been clean for almost a year. That’s… somewhere over two hundred and thirteen days. The realization is the closest thing to bringing tears to my eyes, but I push them away. I don’t want to feel when I’ve been able to go without for so long.
Setting the clothes back on the counter, I rid myself of the ones I brought from home. They’re the only piece of my life I had before this. I wonder if I’ll see them again.
I wonder if I’ll see any of it again.
Stripped bare, I test the water, shocked to find that it actually works. Before anyone decides to change their mind, I jump beneath the spray. My body doesn’t register how cold it is, too overwhelmed by how good it feels to stand underneaththe steady stream. Slowly, the temperature changes, and my muscles relax—at least to the best of their ability after all this time.
Overcome with the sensation, I entirely neglect the soap and shampoo. It’s only when I start to hear some commotion from out in the main room that I rush the process. When I feel the cleanest I’ve felt in months, I dry myself and slide into the new clothes. I pause when the soft material settles against my skin, unused to the comfort.
I carry that feeling with me as I leave the bathroom, but I should have known better. There’s no such thing as comfort in a place like this. Culver and Hannidy are finally here, trapped in their hands, a ghost from the past.
“Clara?”
