Chapter Twenty-One #2
“Stop talking to me,” Jones snaps.
The bell rings and Jones ceases his prowl, returning to his corner. The announcer returns to the center and addresses the crowd.
Master pulls me aside. “You’re embarrassing me out there, Bait. What’re you doing?”
Bait. Not “kid” like he usually calls me. Shame fills my soul.
“I told you, I don’t wanna fight him. I don’t know how.”
“Well, you better figure it out quick. I’ve got a lot of money riding on this fight tonight, and I don’t like losing. In the next round, you can shift. Now get out there and win.”
I’m shoved forward, back into the center. I hesitate, hanging my head and staring at the ground as I walk up to Jones and the announcer.
“Alright. The second bell is going to go off. To ensure there’s no cheating, all opponents are to make their decision about whether they’re going to shift into their wolf prior to the start of the second round. What’ll it be?” The announcer shoves the microphone into Jones’s face.
“Human form,” he says confidently.
The crowd breaks into murmurs, while others bark their approval. Why would anyone choose their human form in this situation?
When someone thinks they have it in the bag, my wolf says.
That doesn’t seem right, but it also doesn’t seem like she’s wrong, either. I don’t have a chance.
“And for you, what’ll it be? Wolf or human form?”
The mic is shoved into my face.
Let me help you, my wolf urges.
I can’t do this to another person . . . Tears roll down my cheeks.
You don’t have to do it alone, she says. We’ll do it together. It’ll go quicker that way.
“I choose . . . my wolf,” I echo into the mic.
The bell goes off, and I shift, preparing to sacrifice my innocence.
***
Later that night
Nothing could have prepared me for the tiny coffin. My rage when they flung the child’s lifeless body slammed it on the arena floor like a football. He was barely bigger than the size of a doll I had once, not much bigger than me.
I killed someone and people cheered.
The words sink in deeper as I think them. My hands tremble. I clench and release my fists, trying to grasp the horror of what I’d just done. How can I ever live with myself?
I hug my knees to my chest, face buried, eyes squeezed shut, praying this is a nightmare.
I’m going to hell.
I rock back and forth on the cold floor of my cell.
This isn’t real. This isn’t real. Wake up!
When I open my eyes, I’m still in the same cold, dark dungeon, my hands still stained with sin.
What have I done?
I sob as tears fall from my cheeks to the floor beneath me.
“I see congratulations are in order. Glad to see you’re still standing,” Mylos says.
I lift my head, appalled. “Congratulations? I murdered someone.” Saying it out loud is even more exasperating. “What I did was—was—horrible.”
“What you did was necessary. Ah, come on, don’t beat yourself up, pup. It’ll get easier.”
The thought that something as awful as taking a life would get easier is even more terrifying.
“Easier? I don’t want it to get easier. I don’t ever want to do that again.”
“Aw, but then who would I have to play games with?”
With a shaky voice I ask, “What is this place?”
“Down here, they call it the Pound. It’s a dog fighting ring. And your only way out is death, pup.”
The first aid kit hits the floor in front of me and clothes are thrown at me. If you could even call them that. They’re more like rags.
“Nice job, kid. You just made me a lot of money. So, tonight, you’re getting a steak.”
The door to my kennel closes. I glance at the first aid kit, then scan my body. When I look at myself, it seems different, like it doesn’t belong to me.
I inspect my wounds from the fight, and it sends a chill up my spine . . . there isn’t a scratch on me. I didn’t get hurt because I did the hurting.
My heart races, and my breathing becomes labored.
I drop to my knees and put my hands together in prayer.
“Please . . . Please forgive me. Please . . . I didn’t want to.
I swear, I’m a good girl . . .” I suck in the snot with a big sniff and swipe my tears with the back of my hand.
“Don’t hate me, Moon Goddess. Don’t forsake me.
Please don’t punish me like this. I’m sorry.
” I clutch my chest at the pain. “Please make it stop. It . . . hurts.”
If this is my life, then this is what the Moon Goddess wants.
She wants me to wear my sins, and to punish myself.
I sob until I’m hyperventilating. It’s like when you’re swimming and finally surfacing from the water and filling your lungs with air.
It’s the most frustrating and uncomfortable feeling.
I need a release.
My upset triggers the beginnings of the shifting process, when my vision sharpens and canines prick my lip. I let my claw elongate, and I cut myself. Only then does the pain to my chest subside.
When I cut myself, I can breathe. The pain is focused, but when I bleed, feelings become more fluid. The emotions aren’t bubbling inside anymore. They have a release valve out of my body.
***
Years later
They stopped calling me Bait or my personal favorite, Prey, after my first few fights.
They saw what I could do, and “Junkyard Jay—the Monster” is a better fit for me.
I miss being called the former. The pups assigned those nicknames are only here short term.
The rest of us who remain, are here because we’ve killed to survive.
It’s been several years since my first fight. And my new nickname and breasts aren’t the only things that are different about me.
My first win shocked everyone, and word spread around like wildfire.
Now, people from all over the realm come to the arena because they want to see the young killer in the ring.
The entertainment value is so high that I have a match almost every week, unless I am given time to recover.
But I’m never recovering from injuries—I’m not that lucky.
I barely ever have a scratch on me, and I still find this troubling.
Unfortunately, the more experience I get, the better I get.
But not mentally. That’s why I need recovery time.
Most of the time I stay in my wolf form because I can’t stand my naked skin. Otherwise, cutting starts, one cut per kill to appease my Goddess. What began as a compulsion now brings relief. Only then can I breathe again.
But there are things you can’t recover from.
What happened to me is my fault. The darkest market of the community found out about the tiny monster destroying everything, and everyone she’s put up against. Then, people with heavy pockets wanted to see me for themselves and gossiped about my appearance, too.
As Master’s business grew so did the volume of work he had to outsource to new staff.
He barely comes around anymore. You would think that was a good thing, but I learned there are bigger evils out there.
Master has put me in awful matches, but he never laid a hand on me.
I guess I was lucky to have him. The busier he got, the less of his protection I received.
My showmanship expanded beyond fighting, into the fulfillment of sexual desires.
Males, and even females wanted to feel powerful by violating me.
I cut myself on the inside once. Only once because cutting there didn’t fill the sensation I needed. But no matter how much I want to, I can’t cut away the empty space they once filled without my permission.
And when I couldn’t do that . . . Well . . .