Below the faint glow, two guns rest in the middle of a two-person wooden table. Max is seated on one side, skin ashen with twitches more aggressive than usual. With Vasquez on my back, I don’t speak a word, but I try to catch his flickering stare—at least until the wall behind him comes into view. Iron is a permanent odor inside the confined space. I’m not really phasedby the tangy weight of it anymore. That has to be the only reason I missed it when I first walked in—the mound of bodies in the back.
I don’t let shock hold me in place anymore, but it almost gets the better of me this time. I nearly stumble, staring into the open, dead eyes of the twin brothers. They rest somewhere in the middle of the gruesome pile, one bleeding on top of the other. The thick, crimson fluid drips into the other’s open mouth, pouring down the line. The cycle continues to the very bottom, where a puddle of their discarded life grows.
“Sit.” Vasquez shoves me into the seat across from Max.
He thinks he’s asserting dominance by pushing the sharp edges of his nails into my skin, but there’s so much scar tissue now I hardly feel a thing. Vince steps into the light, taking turns to eye us both. When I first met Vince, he was just as cruel as all the others. Over time, he started treating me a little more human, basic-level shit, but it was more than the rest. Amiable, I suppose.
When he looks at me now, though, all of that is gone. Maybe cruelty hasn’t entered his glare, but the ice has returned.
“This is going to be real simple, boys. The boss is tired of the same fighters winning. So, to shake it up, we’re going to play a little game. You’ve heard of Russian Roulette?” he asks, checking for confirmation in our eyes. “Well, this is just like that. Instead, you’re not going to take turns. You each get a gun, one bullet in the chamber. The luckiest one enters the ring.”
I almost laugh.
Lucky.
Max and I watch Vince open the chamber, loading one single round into place before everything spins and shuts. The thick metal clunks against the table, and then Vince slides one our way.
“Well, go on,” he says. “If Ricky hasn’t lucked out and killed Diego yet, he won’t last much longer out there. He’s already gone through three matches. So, pick up the guns,” Vince orders, sliding the weapons closer to the edge of the table, “and pull the trigger.”
Like so many times before, the impulse to take this gun and blow their brains out almost takes hold of me, but like every time before, their weapons are already trained on us. It’s not worth the attempt with a single bullet that might not even fire.
I’ve held a gun more times than I can count. Back home, it was one of the only ways my father and I actually bonded—blowing the emptied beer cans off the tree stump in the backyard. The pressure of a gun in my hand never scared me.
Until now.
Clenching my teeth, I reach forward and take the handle. Max follows, shaking as he puts the metal to his skin. “We’re gonna be alright,” I reassure him when his tears begin to well. “We’re going to be fine,” I promise. He trusts me for whatever reason. Together, we pull the trigger, barrel pressed against our temples. My eyes close instinctively, and when I don’t hear a sound, I fling them open, relieved that we both made it.
The smile—the first smile I’ve had in over a year—falls.
Wedidn’t make it.
I didn’t hear anything because the bullet ripping through his skull blew out my eardrums. That ringing I assumed was normal was actually the sound of my cellmate gone.
I did like him; I decided.
Max was a friend.
At least his twitching stopped.
Maybe he’s comfortable now.
In the middle of my thinking about all the things I could have said to him, Vince slaps me on the shoulder. “Wooh!” he cheers,taking the gun, still pressed to my temple, away. “You are the luckiest motherfucker we’ve ever had!”
“The crowd is already chanting your name!” Another guard shouts.
Everything is still underwater, muffled and dull. All of them are fucking ecstatic, like I’m some goddamn miracle, while I sit slumped in the chair, eyeing Max crumpled like a bloodied rag on the ground.
Arms beneath mine, Vince all but carries me out of the chair, holding me upright until we get back to my cell. Sometime along the way, his walkie-talkie went off. I couldn’t make out the name of the person who died with my eardrums ringing, but I think it was Ricky. Of course, it was. Ricky had been coughing up bloody chunks for months. I remember him being sick when they brought him in, and the shitty conditions and beatings only made everything worse. By the end of last week, he could barely move. I’m surprised he even made it into the ring.
“When everything’s cleared up, I’ll bring you out. So, you have some time. Rest up. Pray—jack off. I don’t know. Do whatever you have to do to win. I want to buy my wife a new pair of tits.” He holds his hands a foot away from his chest, laughing hysterically before moving off into the shadows.
There’s no way to prepare for what comes next. All I can do is sit with my back against the wall, unearthing my blade from the hole I’ve carved into the stone, and wait.
Maybe an hour passes before I see Vince again. He walks in with his mouth set in a straight line, and then he spots me standing at the bars, hands set in front of me, ready to be cuffed. “If onlythey were all as easy as you!” I found out a long time ago that if I didn’t cause any problems on the fight nights, Clara would come to me a little less bruised than usual. Marone tended to treat her better if I complied. He pulled a little less aggressively on the chain holding her close if I played nicely.
It’s hard sometimes to remain docile. Every time a guard comes near, or, fuck, Marone, I want to jab a knife in their eye and crack their skulls open with my hands. I’ve tried to convince Clara that we can get out of here, that we can fucking make it, but every time the conversation comes up, fear holds her captive.
“Please don’t do anything, Cade! Please,”she always begs, blood and tears dripping down her face. She reminds me so much of my mom in those moments, wanting to be saved but refusing to let it happen. I could push, but her defeat is too potent. After everything she goes through, I’m her only source of comfort. How do I ruin that? Those thoughts keep me cooperative.
