14. 1994
BUNNY
Almost an hour has gone by since the last fight ended, and if the crowd wasn’t starving for more blood before, they’re feening for it now. They’re restless.
The girls are punished the most for this delay in entertainment. While I stand beside Marone, neck raw and on the verge of bleeding from this fucking chain, the other women are passed around and torn open by hungry men. Their cries pollute the air around me, suffocating my airways until fresh tears well under my eyes.
“You’re a fucking monster,” I hiss, keeping my stare ahead on the empty, red-stained cage instead of down by my feet at the young girl being shared between three slimy assholes. Their grunts are right beside my ear, as are her cries. “A fucking monster.”
“Would you prefer it be you? Hmm? I’ll happily take this chain off your pretty neck and feed you to the wolves. Is that what you want? To be the hero and let them fuck you bloody instead?” He waits for my response with a sly grin, tongue toying with the orange peel sticking out of his Old Fashioned.
“Well?” he asks when I remain silent, knowing I won’t jump to take her place.
“Fuck you.”
“After,” Marone responds, severity taking over his tone as the last fight prepares to begin. From a similar tunnel the girls and I came through, the previous round’s winner emerges. Swollen, vermillion lumps mangle his face. The knots on his cheek and beside both eyes look the worst. With each blink, the gashes on the corner of the sockets reopen, pouring blood down his beaten skin.
Exhaustion is written all across his body. There’s no way he can win another fight. “He’s going to die in there.”
Taking a swig of his drink, Marone smiles. “That’s the point.”
Disbelief overwhelms my system. I’ve always known that there are ugly, evil people in the world, but I don’t understand how anyone can be this cruel for the sake of entertainment.
Blowing out a haggard exhale, I ruefully look toward the arena, waiting for this man’s murderer to be revealed. I can’t breathe until he is, but when I finally see him, the breath I need won’t come.
The scars are what I notice first. All across his lightly tanned chest and torso, deep, white bands snake around his skin. They curve around tight muscles, shifting as he strides into the cage. His eyes are on no one but his opponent, sizing him up with an air of easy confidence.
Unlike the other fighter, this new guy is stalking into the ring, full of energy. It lights his blue glare with enough vigor to bring the room to life. Once again, the roar of the crowd grows deafening. They forget all about the girls in their laps and shift their attention to his bouncing stance.
“Who is that?” I ask, needing to know his name.
“My grand finale.”
The mass of men chants, “Blade! Blade! Blade! Blade! Blade! Blade! Blade! Blade! Blade! Blade!” repeatedly, shaking the walls with their elation. Tipping his curly, sandy brown head to the side, he listens to their shouts, a tight, sickened sneer on his lips before he pulls two muted gray blades from the waistband of his dingy, distressed, black nylon shorts.
Simultaneously, the men circle each other, dancing around the ring with calculation in their gazes. Collectively, I can feel the crowd holding their breath, wondering who is going to take the first leap forward.
“Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it,” I plead for the tired fighter to hear me. Do not throw the first punch. He doesn’t have the strength to win or the stamina to keep moving the way he is. Even if he knows that, he comes out with a right hook, anyway. It’s weak in its delivery, too easy for the opponent to avoid.
The man they call Blade effortlessly dodges the weakly swung fist, batting it away with a nonchalant slap. Embarrassment rises into the tired man’s cheeks, driving him to swing a little harder this time. What men never seem to understand is acting out of pride makes you sloppy, less careful about accuracy, and more interested in proving a point. His point being that he wants to fuck his ass up and not die today.
Blade doesn’t give a shit.
The first stab into the tired man’s gut draws a frenzied roar from the herd. While they throw themselves into the metal, demanding more, I stand still in my place beside Marone’s throne, vomit ready to creep its way past my throat as thick, black blood spills onto the filthy cage floor.
Instincts kick in for the wounded fighter, causing him to drop his hands desperately to stop the blood flow. Blade doesn’t move when his eyes aren’t on him, refusing to injure someone unaware.
“Come on! Finish him!” Marone roars, annoyed there’s honor among this murderer. The only indication that he heard Marone’s demands is the carefree grin that spreads on his lips, but still, he makes no move to slash again. Instead, the Blade everyone cheers for circles his prey, spinning the knives between his fingers at a rapid speed. If his flexing muscles and bloody stature weren’t enough to hold my attention, his skill is.
With the rest of the mob, I watch with utter fascination as he plays with the broken man’s mind, stepping in and out of his vision to remind him that he’s here and he’s waiting to finish this.
There’s no getting out of this, and he knows it. The only way for the fight to be over is for one of them to die, and as of right now, only one of them is on their knees.
I can see his struggle to rise, but he does it with his head high and fists ready. Blood waterfalls onto the ground, adding more filth to the grime. Blade is good at avoiding the mess, but the other man can’t seem to stay on his feet.
“Fucking pussy!”
“Kill the little bitch!”
“I want to see his fucking guts!”
The swarm is merciless, ready to rip each other apart if Blade doesn’t kill him soon, but as antsy as they are for the violence, no one but me is ready for the show to be over.
“What is the point of this? You know he’s going to die, just fucking end it!” I shout as another punch is thrown, wincing with sympathy as Blade drives his fist into the guy”s teeth. Like a pack of wild dogs, a group of men dive to the floor, cackling while holding the shattered teeth high above their heads. Marone laughs along with them, holding his hands forward as if their behavior explains everything. When he sees nothing but disgust written on my face, he takes a more serious approach.
“Let me explain something to you, my Bunny dear.” Pulling on the leash, Marone drags me close, yanking on my already raw neck until I’m leaning into his lap. He takes my clenched jaw in his firm grasp, spearing his thumb past my teeth to get a tighter hold.
“Do you see them, my love?” Guiding my face, he forces me to watch the fight, to witness another brutal slash. This one cuts clean through the gut, spilling more than blood this time. “How about them? You see them?” We turn to take in the hoard of people, the partygoers foaming at the mouths.
“Yes.”
“Okay. Them?” The girls. “How about you?” Marone points me back to face him, forcing me to see myself through his eyes. “You know the difference between you and the men in this room? Those fighters and the men in this room?”
With violent shouts and horror-filled screams echoing behind me, Marone draws out his question, smiling before pressing his lips against mine. “You mean nothing. Those men fighting for their lives mean nothing. You are worthless, my sweet Bunny. So, know your place, dear, because my guests, they matter. My whores, my fighters…you’re nothing but cattle.” Finished, he throws me to the ground, matching the exact moment Blade wins the fight.
When the back of my head hits the ground, I find myself staring into another set of eyes. Unlike the last, these are full of blazing life, and they gaze down upon me from above with enough power to split me in two.
Fingers linked through the chain-link gate, Blade studies my lying position, eyes sparking with dark curiosity before meeting the man on the throne. “I’m done,” he barks, then spares me another striking glance before stalking away from the cage.
I pick myself up off the ground in time to see a guard race to open the ring, still feeling his formidable presence even as he walks away. I don’t miss the look of fear on his face as Blade pushes past him and slips into the dark tunnel, how the color drains from his brown skin or that the diameter of his pupils grows to take over hazel eyes. Despite the two guns strapped to his chest, he”s terrified of this killer.
“Are you ready for that, my dear?” I spin on my ass to glance at Marone, freezing at his exuberant grin. “You won’t survive the night.”