FROM THE MOMENT I entered our small, quaint home, I noticed that the air was thick with this weird feeling. The pale sun peeked through the faded curtains, and I sighed. The scent of antiseptic and stale air hung heavy, and my heart pounded in my chest. Elliot's insistence on staying home was both admirable and infuriating. Luckily, Dr. Welsh said that he could stay and recover inside our home. He lay in the heart of our living room, his once robust body now wilted with illness and his vibrant eyes dulled by fever. His coughs echoed through the little house, and hearing him wheeze made me feel awful. I mean, how can I even sit and listen to him like that? To be honest, his spirit was indomitable, but his body was betraying him. Elliot just doesn't listen.
Dr. Welsh had done all he could, though. I mean, he already prescribed a barrage of medications that promised hope. Yet, those small capsules and liquid medications were more than just medicine. Their cost was a mountain to our molehill of funds, creating this emptiness on our hope for recovery. I held the newest prescription in my hand, the paper crisp and cold. I could almost taste the bitterness of the pills it prescribed. My mind danced anxiously around the numbers etched on the bottom—the cost of Elliot's life in cold, hard digits. Could I afford it? Could I afford not to?
Shocks. I can't. I just can't afford all these.
In the quiet of the evening later that day, I found myself alone with my thoughts. Elliot had always been there. But now, honestly, I felt adrift in the dark, icy waters of uncertainty.
I woke the next morning with a reluctance that matched the heaviness of the gray clouds outside. My heart was weighed down by the reality of Elliot's condition and my inability to afford his medicines. Mamori had offered to help me with the prescription; her heart was as vast as the universe itself. I was supposed to go by myself to buy Elliot's medications, but she insisted on buying the medicines herself. "You've been through a lot," she said as we made our way to the pharmacy, her words cloaked in a kindness that was rare in our brutal world. "I'll handle this. You just wait here."
And so, I found myself waiting in a narrow alley, sandwiched between two old brick buildings. The air smelled of damp earth and forgotten lives, a scent that was as familiar as my own heartbeat. The city's noise dwindled here, replaced by the hum of a distant generator and the occasional scurry of a rat. At the far end of the alley, two men loomed, their figures hidden and menacing against the graffiti-ridden walls. Tattoos crawled up their arms like vines, disappearing beneath the frayed edges of their shirts. Their faces were hard, etched with lines of a life lived on the edge, and their clothes were as unkempt as their beards. As society's outcasts, they were much like me, only with a different set of choices.
I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but their conversation floated my way, carried by the breeze.
At first, the conversation between the men was just a low murmur, blending into the distant hum of traffic. But then, a word caught my attention. "Prize." That word. That one word. My heartbeat quickened, and I found myself straining to catch their whispers.
"The biggest payout yet," one of the men was saying, his voice gravelly and low. "Enough to make a poor man rich, or a rich man richer."
A knot of anticipation twisted in my stomach. Elliot... The medication he needed was more than we could afford. The thought of the sum the man had just mentioned made my heart pound in my chest. It was a dangerous thought, a dangerous hope. But with Elliot's life on the line, I was ready to embrace anything.
"Raunn would remain the champion there for sure," one of them growled, his voice raspy like a chainsaw against wood.
"Underground Arena ain't seen someone like him in ages, though," the other agreed, chuckling darkly.
A cold thrill shot down my spine as I realized they were talking about an underground arena. Is this illegal? Is this real? An illicit gathering where the desperate and the daring fought for money, power, or just the sheer thrill of it.
I swallowed hard, my mind made up. I stepped into the neon-lit circle, my shadow merging with theirs. "This arena," I began, my voice steady. "Tell me more about it."
At first, they looked at each other, then at me. They shared glances, before finally concluding what I was going for. Slowly, they wheezed in amusement. Their laughter echoed off the grimy brick walls, a harsh, grating sound. They shared a look, their eyes gleaming with something akin to amusement. "It ain't for the likes of you, girlie," the taller one sneered.
"It's illegal, you know," the other added, smirking. "But if you're smart, you'll keep your pretty nose out of it."
I held their gaze, unflinching. It was crucial to show no fear now. "I plan on joining," I said, my words hanging heavily in the air.
Their laughter boomed louder this time, a cacophony of disbelief and amusement. "You? In the ring?" the shorter one wheezed, clutching his belly. "I'd pay good money to see that!"
I scowled, my pride stinging. But I swallowed the retort that bubbled up. What did it matter what these men thought?
I thanked them for their information, my voice as cold as the steel in my spine. As I turned, I heard them still snickering, their laughter echoing in the alley like ghostly whispers. One of the men stopped laughing and ushered me closer as he gestured to share some information about the said arena. I was quite nervous, and he can tell it by the looks on my face. "I don't know why you need that much money, girlie, but if you want to stay alive, I'd rather tell you to step out of it," he said.
Suddenly, the bell chimed from the nearby pharmacy, cutting through the conversation like a knife. Mamori stepped out, her arms laden with bags. I pushed myself off the wall, my heart pounding as I hurried towards her. The men's conversation faded behind me, drowned by the blood rushing into my ears.
"Mamori!" My voice was barely a whisper, my words tumbling over each other in my haste.
"Prim," she called. "Where'd you come from?"
Instead of answering, I shook my head. "I heard something... an arena...prize money..."
She first looked at me to make sure if I was joking, but I wasn't. I was serious. When she realized what I was talking about, her eyes widened, and she clutched her bags tighter. But before she could respond, I continued, "It's enough, Mamori. Enough for Elliot's medication."
I watched as Mamori's face transitioned from shock to disbelief and then to a kind of horror that I had never seen on her before. I felt my heart pounding in my chest like a wild bird trapped in a cage as I broke the news to her about the underground arena.
"Mamori," I began, trying to keep the tremor from my voice. "There's an opportunity, something that could help me afford Elliot's meds." That's how I started, keeping the nasty truth hidden behind a veil of euphemism. An opportunity, I had called it a chance. I knew it was more than that; I knew it was dangerous, even illegal. But I had no choice.
As I revealed the details, her eyes widened with each passing moment. The clandestine fights, the illegal betting, the dangerous men and women who ran the whole operation—I laid it all bare before her. I saw her hands, usually so steady, tremble slightly as she took it all in. This wasn't the life I had chosen for myself or the one I wished for Elliot. But sometimes, life is a cruel puppeteer, forcing us to dance on its strings. And so, here I was, about to step into a world that was as far away from my comfort zone as the moon from the earth.
"No, Prim," Mamori protested, her voice choked. "You can't do this. It's illegal; it's dangerous. You could get hurt."
I met her gaze, my eyes burning with a resolve she had never seen before. "I know," I admitted, "but it's a risk I'm willing to take. For Elliot."
A silence swept over us—a silence so thick I could almost feel it pressing down on me. Mamori looked at me, a complex mix of fear, worry, and anger etched on her face. "This is not the way," she implored, her voice barely above a whisper. "There has to be another way."
In response, I simply shook my head. "I've looked, Mamori. I've searched every nook and cranny of this godforsaken town. This is the only way."
I saw the battle in her eyes—the war between her concern for me and the desperation of our situation. But I knew I had already won. She might not agree, she might not like it, but she knew as well as I did that there was no other choice.
"You have to listen to me," I said, my voice reverberating through the small, dingy area. Mamori's eyes, usually sparkling and full of friendly mischief, were now clouded with worry and fear. She couldn't possibly understand.
"You can't do this, Prim," she insisted, her voice wavering.
Her words were like a splinter in my heart, a painful reminder of the chasm that lay between us. Mamori, with her clean clothes and full belly, had always lived a life far removed from mine. Money was never an issue for her. She had never had to experience the gnawing hunger, the cold nights, or the fear of not knowing where the next meal would come from.
"Mamori, it's easy for you to say," I retorted, my voice a bitter whisper. "You don't know what it's like to steal just to survive, to live day to day, not knowing if you'll have enough to eat or to wear."
My voice trailed off, my mind shifting to the image of the living room where Elliot sat in his chair. He was shivering, his thin blanket barely providing any warmth. His face was pale, and his eyes were closed in pain. The sight of him was a stab to my heart.
"Elliot needs his medication," I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. "Medication I can't afford. I can't stand to see him in pain. I just can't. He's the only family that I have since I got here in this area."
I could see Mamori's heart break at my words. She reached out to me, her hands trembling. "Prim, let me help. Let me pay for the medication."
I recoiled from her touch, my heart pounding in my chest. "No. I don't want your charity. I don't need it. I can take care of Elliot. I can take care of myself."
As I voiced the words, I felt a strange sense of liberation. Yes, life was tough. Yes, I had to do things I wasn't proud of. But I was a survivor. I wouldn't let Mamori or anyone else pity me or my adoptive father.
Mamori was silent, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She understood. She had to. I was determined to do whatever it took to protect Elliot and give him the life he deserved. Even if that meant stepping into the illegal arena, even if it meant risking my life, I would do it. For my only parent. As the last vestiges of light escaped from the town, I looked at Mamori. Her face was a mask of sorrow, but there was a newfound respect in her eyes. I could only hope that she would understand why I had to do this and why I had to walk this path of danger and uncertainty.
This was my reality and my struggle. As I left her there, her worried eyes following my retreating figure, I felt a shiver of anticipation run down my spine. The arena beckoned with its promise of danger and hope. And I was ready to face it.
***
From the moment I'd first heard whispers of the illegal arena, my mind had been consumed by an irresistible curiosity. I'd found myself spending countless evenings constructing a makeshift dummy from discarded scraps, practicing in the seclusion of a worn-out dumpster. It was an odd choice of training ground, I know, but it provided me with the privacy I needed. The smell was offensive—a pungent combination of rotting food and rusted metal—but somehow, it had become my own private dojo.
I could still remember Mamori's protest, her words echoing in my ears every time my makeshift weapon connected with the dummy. She didn't understand and couldn't possibly comprehend the life I lived. It was never easy to be poor. Her protests were like a crow squawking in my ear, an annoying reminder of the life I was supposed to live. Yet, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of remorse at the thought of her worry.
My days blurred into one another, a constant dance of evading Mamori's disapproval and refining my combat skills. Each swing of my arm, each pivot of my heel, was measured and intentional. The dummy bore the brunt of my frustration; its recycled body thudded rhythmically against the dumpster walls, creating a unique percussion that echoed through the abandoned alleyways.
As the days passed, I felt a surge of confidence. My movements became smoother, solidifying into a dance of precision and power. I was beginning to understand the rhythm of combat, and the dummy seemed less and less intimidating each day. Yet, with every satisfying smack against the dummy, a knot of agitation tightened in my gut.
One late afternoon, as the sun began its descent and bathed the world in a warm, golden hue, I was in the midst of my routine. I was so engrossed in my practice that I barely noticed the dip in temperature or the sudden chill that skated down my spine. I felt it before I saw it. A presence, a shift in the otherwise stagnant air. My heart palpitated, my movements stilled, and I found myself holding my breath. Slowly, I turned, and my heart thudded violently against my chest.
A figure loomed at the entrance of the alley, shrouded in black. The light from the setting sun cast long, distorted shadows, turning the figure into an ominous silhouette. He stood still as a statue, the only discernible feature being the glint of something metallic in his hand. A... camera? Fear coursed through my veins, and for a moment, we were locked in a silent standoff.
Blinking rapidly, I rubbed my eyes, hoping to clear my vision. But when I opened them, the figure was gone, swallowed by the growing shadows. The man with a black trench coat and fedora hat was gone. I stood there, my heart pounding in my chest, the silence of the alleyway suddenly deafening. Was it a hallucination? An illusion born out of my incessant training?
I shook my head in a futile attempt to rid myself of the paranoia that had taken hold. I turned back to my dummy, its torn face now a stark reminder of the world I was preparing to enter. I gripped my weapon tighter, my resolve hardening. No matter what, I was not going to back down. Not now, not ever.
The next day, when the sun had just begun to peek over the horizon, I slipped into my hooded jacket, the one that was just nondescript enough to keep me invisible in the crowd. The fabric felt like a shield against the world as I left the safety of my home, stepping into the cold, uninviting morning. The town was still asleep, shrouded in pre-dawn tranquility, oblivious to the dark underbelly that lay beneath its glittering surface.
My heart pounded with a rhythm that teased the dangerous dance I was about to enter. Pulling the hood tighter around my face, I steeled myself and began the descent into the labyrinth of the underground. A sense of dread trailed behind me like a shadow, yet a stronger force propelled me forward.
"Just head straight to the station, and go right. If you see a small alley, just continue meandering there, and you would find a large entrance with a man guarding outside." Those were the words from the man I spoke with about the arena.
The entrance to the arena was unassuming, hidden in the bowels of the city. A heavy iron door was guarded by the hulk of a man whose eyes held no warmth. With a nod, he let me pass, and I found myself swallowed by the pulsating heart of the underground. The arena was a beast of its own, a cavernous space filled with the heady scent of sweat and fear, the air vibrating with the raw, primal energy of the fighters. The spectators, a motley crowd of thrill-seekers, were perched on the stone benches that lined the walls, their faces bathed in the harsh, unforgiving light of the naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling.
In the center, the arena was a flat, sandy expanse, a stage for the brutal ballet of violence that unfolded before my eyes. Muscular men with their bodies glistening with sweat and anticipation, moved with a brutal grace that was as captivating as it was terrifying. Every punch thrown, every grunt of pain, was a testament to their raw power and capacity for cruelty. The crowd roared like a beast, their bloodlust echoing off the stone walls. For a moment, I felt a wild surge of fear clutch at my heart, threatening to pull me under. Was I really about to plunge into this world of savagery? But then my eyes found Elliot.
He was on his knees, a grimace etched on his face as he staggered. His eyes, usually bright and full of life, were clouded with pain and desperation. The sight was a punch to my gut, stronger than any blow I'd seen in the arena. It hardened my resolve, solidifying the dangerous decision that was forming in my mind. No, I have to do this. I have to watch this.
The crowd roared again, their cheers echoing in the hollow pit of my stomach. I tightened my grip on the edge of the hood, my knuckles white against the black fabric. This was no longer just a dangerous game, a foolish dalliance. It had become personal.
As I left the arena not long after, the symphony of violence still ringing in my ears, I knew that I was irrevocably committed. I was going to join this brutal dance, not for the thrill, not for the danger, but for Elliot. For a chance to save him from the pain that had etched itself so deeply into his face. As the cold morning air embraced me again, I took a deep breath, tasting the tang of freedom and fear on my tongue. The air was still thick with the stench of sweat and fear, a memento of the brutal spectacle I had been embroiled in. Then, the gravel crunched beneath my worn-out boots as I made my way out of the arena's back entrance. The cool air brushed against my skin, tingling the fresh welts and bruises that were scattered across my body like a gruesome constellation. Each step was a painful reminder of the life I had chosen, a life I clung onto for the sake of survival.
The flickering street lamps illuminated the dilapidated buildings lining the narrow alleyway to my home. The sounds of the city at night, the distant sirens, and the occasional car driving past were a lullaby that had long since lost its charm.
A familiar figure stood in front of our crumbling abode, her silhouette illuminated by the dim porch light. Mamori, her posture rigid and her face etched with concern, was waiting for me. A wave of resentment bubbled up inside me. The last thing I needed was a lecture—a reminder of the life I was living. I was about to brush past her, the words of dismissal already forming on my lips, when she spoke.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice barely a whisper, carried away by the night wind. Her eyes, usually so stern, were now soft, filled with regret. "I just... I can't bear to see you like this. Risking your life for..."
"Money?" I interrupted, my voice bitter. The cold wind whipped around us, pulling at my hood and tugging at Mamori's loose strands of hair. "Life hasn't exactly dealt us a fair hand, has it?"
I continued before she could intervene. "Elliot, he's been more of a father to me than anyone else, and he himself has nothing." My voice broke, the raw emotion of my confession catching in my throat. "I just want him to have a better life than this."
Mamori was silent for a moment, her face unreadable. I could feel the tension hanging between us like an unspoken promise. Finally, she broke the silence. "Just...be careful, Primrose."
The wind carried her words away, leaving us in the silence of the night. Her apology, her concern—it all hung in the air, a reminder of the life we led and the people we were doing it for. The world outside our little home continued its nightly symphony, oblivious to our heartache. As I stepped past Mamori and into our house, her words echoed in my mind. Be careful. But in our world, being careful was a luxury we could hardly afford.
I am going to take this path, whatever it takes.