Maybe, Maybe if I was normal I would have been allowed to die.
Maybe, but I'm not normal am I? Maybe I am, it's hard to tell what normal is any more.
The smell is always the first thing to wake me up in the morning. The smell of Blood mixed with the dirt and grit of the floor. Not the sun that shines through the tiny barred window but the smell, figures right.
The thing that really drags me out of my unconsciousness though is the taste of fresh blood in my mouth that always greets me.
I guess I never broke the habit of chewing my lips in my sleep, My wounded lips.
The next thing I always do is sit up, Trying not to reopen wounds.
A pointless exercise really.
The next thing I try to accomplish is to eat the measly moldy bun.
Emphasis on the try, my ribs so bruised, bloodied, and bandaged, hurt when I chew, well not just when I chew but when I do anything really.
Then I get my nail and scratch a mark on the wall, I know how ridiculously hopeful of me, I don't know how many days Iv'e slept through, but it's nice to have some semblance of time.
Then comes the highlight of my week or my fortnight I can't be sure which one it is, note the sarcasm.
The wall barring me from the 'arena', as I have dubbed it for lack of better name is opened. The arena is a thirty square metre room with no windows and roughly a ten metre high roof lit up with torches.
Don't ask me how I measured the roof.
It will appear that no one is watching, but they are, they always are.
Then comes the part that I hate the part that gives me lasting wounds. I must fight the malnourished person coming in from the other side.
I will grip my nail, stand shakily on my feet and limp to the other side of the room quietly, They didn't call me the queen of sneaks for nothing.
If I am lucky they will be unconscious and I will just quietly and cautiously put them out of their misery, if they aren't well unconscious then follows an battle. They didn't get this far in by being wimps.
I have some very bad burns to prove it.
Some beg, cry, talk, But most, most fight to stay alive the punishment and relief of death being to scary a concept for either of us.
If we don't comply, if we refuse, Then what happens?
That never happens any more, but in the old days it did. If you refuse they will kill one of you, and beat the other so hard you can see Death's icy hold reaching for you.
You learn quickly.
Puck
A name I have almost forgotten but never can.
Once I kill the other person, I will go back to the cage, scrap another P in the wall opposite to the one that marks time, sit back against it and enjoy the three meals they bring me in honor of winning.
Every fourth time I win, they will bring me clothes.
Every seventh time a item of my choice they will slide a paper and pencil through asking what I want and I will answer.
Oh you didn't think I actually saw them did you?
They won't give you weapons, or a bed, a broom, or sheets.
They will give you books though maximum of ten.
They make the hours tick by quicker.
Every twentieth fight they move you and your 'stuff'.
I have been moved five times, which I guess means I'm between my hundredth and hundred and twentieth fight and if there is one every one or two weeks that would make...I can't be bothered to figure that out currently.
They always give me a window.
I escaped the two guards the first time they moved me.
Since then Iv'e had five.
They take my nail, but then give it back with the rest of my stuff. They even re carve everything which makes me think that they are just taking me for a walk, but they are sloppy they don't carve one of my P's right or they shift the books to the left.
I guess that is about all I can tell you currently, the wall is opening now. This is a seventh one, maybe they'll give me another pencil and I can write more.
Wish me luck.
Hello so tell me how was it My muse has been nagging me about that so much. Iv'e never wrote anything like that before, sorry if the grammar is a bit shabby.
thanks for reading.
-coolofthecool