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Forty-Five
Skye
Present
The cloaked fucks are antsy again. They pace a short distance away, peering at us intermittently. I can sense their triumph as they peer at me, standing there, “broken” and bleeding.
But bleeding I might be, broken I am not.
I’m putting on that front, though. I even flinch when they get too close. Let them think I’m terrified of their swinging hands.
I’m not terrified of their slaps, though.
I’m terrified of fucking this entire thing up.
Which seems to be my track record in life. One fuck up after the next.
“This is not part of the plan,” I whisper again. “This is all wrong.”
I am not supposed to be here, in a line, waiting for—
“Hey,” I quietly say to the girls in front of me. “What are we waiting for, ladies?”
They don’t answer. Don’t even flinch.
“I have to know,” I implore. “Please.”
Nothing.
I let out a defeated breath.
A sudden howl sounds, making me freeze in place. The man’s shouts are absolutely animalistic. My heart picks up again—
“We’re waiting for the fight to be over,” a soft voice says. I look to the girl in front of me as she twists her head slightly to acknowledge me.
“What happens when it’s over?” I ask.
“They bring us in so that the Victor can look upon us.”
I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t…
My question hangs in the air before I even say it. I sort of—fuck—I sort of know what it will be when it’s out there, but you never fucking know.
“Why will he lookuponus?”
She sounds ominous. “He’ll be choosing.”
“Choosing what?” I stress impatiently.
Her words are tiny, nearly mute. “His trophy.”
My spine straightens. I peer around like maybe I didn’t hear that right—
But I heard it.
His “trophy”.
What in the holy—
Fuck.
