Gone
Fatigue filled every bone in his body. His body was bruised and battered. His hair was dirty and full of grime. It didn't even look blonde. His knuckles were bruised and calloused, after being constantly used.
He was so tired he couldn't even move. He couldn't even close his eyes. He didn't know how long he had been lying down on the floor; how long ago he had been dragged back into his cell.
His mind was haunted by green eyes. Green eyes which he had taken the life out of.
He couldn't remember the last time he had been fed; his stomach had stopped rumbling long ago.
He couldn't remember how long he had been here. There was no daylight in his cell. The only light came from a dim light bulb hanging from the ceiling, far above his head. The bulb would usually flicker and turn off. All he ever saw was darkness, until the guards came to get him for another fight. He had stopped counting off the days after it had passed more than a year. He didn't know how long ago that was.
All of his "days" were a blur. With no daylight, he really couldn't keep track when one day ended and another began.
Either way, the routine was always the same. Wake up if he wasn't woken up by the guards. Be taken to the arena if he was fighting. If not, he would stay in his cell. Sometimes he would get food, if the guards were feeling generous. If he was lucky, after a fight, he was taken to the showers and given a towel and a new change of clothes. Then, it was back to his cell until the next fight.
He hated fighting, but staying in his cell for the entire day was more torturous. At least during a fight, he got some glimpse of the outside. He was certain that he would've been driven to insanity if he didn't see the outside world at least once in awhile. At least that way he knew he was still alive; that he wasn't dead. That this wasn't a nightmare; it was his life.
It had been so long since he felt the comforts of his own bed. He couldn't even remember how it felt like to lie down on an actual mattress, instead of the dirt. He couldn't remember the last time he had had an actual meal, with steaming hot food that didn't make him sick.
He couldn't even sleep at night. He was kept awake by wails and shouts of agony. Someone died almost every night. He felt jealous of those who had passed away. They didn't have to go through the torture day after day anymore.
He wished he was one of them. He wished he was dead. He didn't understand why he was still alive; why his body continued to function, albeit slowly.
Every time he felt that he was at the brink of death from hunger, the guards would finally bring him food. If he refused to eat, they would force him to. Or, they would call HIM.
He absolutely hated when they called HIM. HE was terror in its purest form. HE was the reason he was here. HE was the one who captured him. HE had the remote to the collar around his neck. HE would press the red button and he would feel pain. Burning pain, as if he was on fire. Never-ending, burning pain. Pain that made him scream till his voice was raw. HE would keep pressing the button until he lost consciousness.
His only hope of peace was throwing a fight. But he couldn't do that. Losing was dying. Here, they fought till death.
Besides, HE would get her. HE would get them. HE promised he would hurt them, if he didn't fight well. And he couldn't let HIM get any of them.
Though, he couldn't even remember who he was fighting to save; who he was trying to keep from danger. He was sure it was something in the food. Some chemical that slowly wiped his memory away.
He tried to recall her, but nothing would come to mind. Sometimes he would remember brunette hair, soft brown eyes, and an angelic laugh, but that was it. He couldn't come up with her name. It was on the tip of his tongue, buried deep inside of his memory. But, it was too much energy to try to find her name. He had to save any and all of his energy to fight.
He could sometimes think of who the others were, if he tried hard enough. The picture of a gray-haired man and a blonde woman would surface in his mind occasionally. Sometimes he would see a flash of red hair or a flash of cheetah print, but that was it.
He wanted to know their names. He knew he knew them from somewhere; but he couldn't remember. He wanted to remember. He wanted to remember her name. He needed to remember.
Funny, how quickly the mind forgets the things it cares about most.
A female voice echoed on the walls of his cell. He slowly and painfully lifted his head up to try to find the location of the voice. However, he saw nothing.
The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't remember why.
He used to think about them all of the time. Picturing their faces helped make the days more bearable. At least he knew they cared about him.
He remembered his first fight; his first murder.
He thought he could move on, but he couldn't. The young man's terrified brown eyes haunted him whenever he closed his eyes. His eyes filled with agony as he let out his dying breath.
Now, after so much time in the arena, every fight tormented him.
If the screaming didn't keep him awake, the nightmares did.
Nightmares of his victims, begging him to take the fatal blow. Begging for his mercy to kill them. If they didn't die in the arena, they would die in the hands of the guards. If he killed them, death would be instant. They wouldn't be tortured.
He screamed her name after the first nightmare. He saw her. She spoke to him.
"You're not a murder." She said, reassuring his deepest fears. Then, the vision of her faded away.
He wasn't a murderer. He was doing this to survive. This wasn't his choice. He was doing this to keep her alive; to protect her.
He remembered the vision of her. What he would do to remember it again. Just her name. All he needed was her name. To survive. To make it through.
He wondered if people even remembered him. If he had been missing long enough to be marked as dead by the police. He wondered if people still wondered about him. If anyone still cared.
He used to see her every time he woke up after a nightmare. It felt as if she was really there. She reassured him that he wasn't a murderer; that he didn't kill those people on purpose.
But, wasn't he?
He was Austin Moon, teen pop sensation turned into a ruthless killer in a fighting arena. For the sake of HIS entertainment.
He could still remember that fateful night when he was captured. He was walking home from being with her. They had spent the night working on a new song. He felt himself being followed, but whenever he turned around there was no one on the street.
As he turned the street corner, one block away from his house, he felt himself being hit with something heavy. His vision instantly went black and all he remembered was searing pain.
When he had woken up, he was in the cell.
He wanted to go home. He wanted to get out of here.
But he had lost hope long ago. People had probably forgotten about him; he had been gone for so long. The world had probably moved on. He was probably a forgotten memory, another young teenage boy with the same dreams as him, probably taking his place in the spotlight.
He wondered if she remembered him. If she even knew him or if she was just a figment of his imagination.
He wanted to recall her name. He needed it. She was his only hope and his hope was deteriorating, just like his strength.
He didn't know how much longer he would be able to last.
He heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor. He hoped they weren't coming for him. It was too soon to go back out there. He could still hear the teenage boy's dying breath. He caused the boy's death. A boy no older than he was. He killed him.
The footsteps stopped right outside of his cell.
He shook his head frantically. No. He wasn't ready.
"Let's go. You're up." The guard said, metal creaking as he opened the cell door.
He felt himself being pulled up, two pairs of rough arms grabbing onto his. He was dragged down the hall. He had no energy to fight against the guards. He had made that mistake before his first fight.
No.
Not again. Not another fight in the same day. He couldn't do it. He couldn't kill again.
He needed her name. He needed her.
The guard pushed him into the waiting hall. Through the barred doors, he saw the immense crowd of burly men filling the arena.
"Please." He said to no one, his voice sounding hoarser and deeper. It was foreign to him. Just like he was.
He wasn't the same person he was before he was captured. He knew that. Murder did that to him. It played with his mind, taunting him, playing with him. Driving him crazy. Keeping him awake at night.
Another guard opened the door from the other side. He was met with a blinding light. He heard the sounds of a crowd cheering. He was pushed into the fighting arena.
"I just need her name."
Funny, how quickly the mind forgets the things it cares about most.
He heard the voice again. This time, it sounded like her.
This idea just came to me one day. I finally sat down to write, and this happened. Honestly, I have no words. I'll leave that to you.
~The-Queen-of-Misery