This was the part I hated the most. The waiting. Knowing that just beyond the wooden walls of this little closet-like 'Bullpen' was an arena surrounded by bleachers full of people waiting to see if I can beat the pulp out of someone else. Knowing they don't really care, I'm just a betting slip to them.
"You ready?" Miko asks from behind the hall door. He's the unofficial water boy, being the newest. I had to do my share of that my first few months as well.
"Course." I snort, hiding my nerves. It's pointless; Miko knows I hate waiting in this dark, cramped closet.
"Just 1 more minute, kay?" He says.
One more minute. One more minute before the cuts that have begun to heal get reopened. One more minute before my skin gains new sickly hues from fresh bruises. One. More. Minute.
I hate the wait. The other fighters use this time to concentrate, psyche themselves up for a fight. I usually snap into focus the minute someone is charging at me, not before. I try to peek out through the crack in the door leading to the arena, my only source of light. The bleachers seem to ripple as everyone moves. Hersh said it was a full house, I underestimated what that meant. The bleachers are packed, and there are people standing behind them as well. If Hersh is filled to standing room only, that means there has to be a couple thousand people out there.
Gladiator fighting is popular here in district 10. There're rodeos for the non-gamblers, mainly little kids, and horse racing for the weaker stomached, but gladiator fighting is also popular. I never understood why. It's not like ranchers are even that well off. Maybe it's a thrill-seeker thing. If you want to seek thrilling fights, you need to be in them to have the best seat. I think with some scorn.
I hear thumps up above me, then a pause. The Gatekeeper, most likely the ticket boy, Justin, is poised above me. I can picture him, poised to pull up the wooden gate, waiting for the horn to signal him. I hear a tap above me, then a pause, and then a second tap. I wait for a third, but it doesn't come. Double tap. Knock em' out, hard and quick.
I don't have time to feel bad for whoever I'm fighting that's about to get creamed before the horn sounds. The gate goes up and I charge into the arena, my whole body on high alert. A roar of sound fills my ears as the crowd cheers and jeers. The light is hard on my eyes, despite Hersh keeping it dim for us fighters. Across the arena, I see a bolt of black lightning.
Angus, the behemoth. The crowd favorite on any given night.
I hit the blood stained, sawdust covered floor, kicking out at his shins. Angus tries to slow down his charge, but his momentum carries him right into me. He hit's the floor hard, all 200lbs of him. I leap to my feet, quick as a cat, but he scrambles up just as fast.
Deadlock. We circle each other looking for an opening. Over Angus's shoulder, I can see Hersh glancing at his watch, then at me. Hurry up. That gaze says.
Angus takes advantage of my momentary distraction, charging into my midriff. Pain explodes under my ribs and my breath comes out in a huff, but I manage to keep my feet. Quick as a viper, I slam down my left fist on the base of his skull, followed quickly by my right. Angus staggers to his hands and knees, frozen in shock. Backing up, I have a perfect view of his ebony features as his chocolate eyes roll back. I can see beads of sweat on his brow. I can see the tension leave his muscles as he loses consciousness and collapses. Can you see that from up in those bleachers? I think, scornfully.
Somewhere above me, I hear a whistle blow, and I know I've won. I should be happy, relieved even, but I feel empty, cheated; the win was preordained. Angus's gatekeeper must have given him the triple tap of defeat because I've seen Angus out for blood before, and he would have smashed me in the face with his fists if he'd meant real harm.
Hersh told me when I first started that helping your opponent looks weak, so I leave the arena through the gate I entered. I learned on my own not to wave at the crowd. At least some of them will have lost money. Hersh rigs his fights so that usually, most of them have lost money. The last time I tried to wave, I was dodging beer bottles and cut my foot on broken glass. Even now, I can see an abundance of middle fingers and hear some not so complementary shouts.
Ducking into the Bullpen, I slip wordlessly into the hallway behind. I want to look over my shoulder to see if Angus is alright, but I don't. My bare feet pad softly down the hall to the locker room.
"Good fight out there!" Miko says, handing me a cup of water as I enter.
"There's no such thing." I growl. I try sitting down on a bench but my midriff is too sore. I settle for leaning against the wall.
"What do you mean? Those were awesome moves!" Miko continues.
"Fighting is bad. I don't care what the reasons for it are, hurting people on purpose is just plain wrong." I say before gulping down the water.
Miko's eyes grow wide but he doesn't get a chance to answer before Justin and Austin enter, supporting Angus between them. He's on his feet, but barely. They carry him to a empty cot and lay him down gently. Miko follows with the water, fishing out the painkillers from his pocket. I peek at Angus out of the corner of my eye, feigning indifference. Angus hoists himself up on one elbow, winces, and takes the water from Miko. I'm glad he takes the water, because he refuses the proffered painkillers.
"Come on Angus, your head's killing you! Just swallow your pride and take the damn painkillers!" Justin says.
"Yeah, that was a hard knock on the head." Austin confirms.
"I said I don't want no drugs!" Angus drawls. His voice is really deep and has a slow, musical quality to it. I remember a few of the black ranchers having similar voices, but Angus's is unique. I once asked Angus about it, but he got all offended and said he talks perfectly normal, which isn't true.
"For heaven's sake! They're Advil pills, not morphling shots!" Miko growls with exasperation. Wrong thing to do. I think, He'll just resist more if you get mad.
True to form, Angus just glares and drinks the rest of the water, before laying down again. I decide to intervene.
"Hey Miko, can I have some ice and pills?" I ask.
"Sure, at least you can admit you need them. Getting rammed in the stomach can't be fun, huh?" Miko says, fetching an icepack from the fridge in the corner and handing it to me.
He gives me the icepack and two oblong, white pills before trotting after Justin and Austin to the arena to watch the next fight. If I remember correctly, the next fight is supposed to be Andrew versus Hutch. They're both in their early twenties and well matched in both skill and strength, so this fight should last a lot longer.
I push myself off the wall and walk stiffly over to Angus's cot, the pills curled safely in my fist. "You know no one thinks you're weak." I say, when Angus looks up at me.
"I know that. Austin told me to let you win." Angus says.
"That's not what I meant and you know it." I reply. Clenching my teeth, I sit on the edge of the cot. Pain spreads out in a wave of heat from my bruised stomach, and I gasp slightly, tears threatening to appear.
"I don't want my judgment to be clouded." Angus says. This is understandable, considering his dad had been a morphling addict when he was younger, had died from an overdose, leaving Angus on his own to raise his younger siblings at 18 years old.
"You know these don't affect your judgment, but it will be hard to think straight if your head is pounding." I say. Angus is quiet, considering my words. "You don't have any more fights for another hour, just take them."
"I don't want to be like my dad."
"You aren't your dad, and taking two pills when you really need them, doesn't make you an addict." I say. Angus searches my eyes, apparently he thinks I'm sincere because he takes the pills from my hand and swallows them slowly, one at a time.
"You want to ice your head? I can always get another." I offer.
"No, you've done plenty for me…Nurse Diana." Angus adds. I laugh and punch his shoulder lightly, before getting up. My stomach twinges with pain when I sit down on a bench, but I press the icepack to it and before long, it's numb.
I lay there for a long time before slowly getting up to shower off. In the shower stall, I delicately peel off the shorts and sports bra that constitutes my 'fighting costume'. It's all black except for my last name in white lettering on the back. I was hesitant when Hersh first informed me I'd be fighting in basically a bikini, but now I realize that it allows for more movement, and a chance to show off my well defined muscles.
I turn on the water and let the warm water sooth my aching muscles. I always take a shower here since we can't afford a water heater at home. I spend so long that my fingers and toes become pruny. I towel off and change into my street clothes. My cotton tanktop and jeans are far more comfortable than my fighting outfit. I slip on my leather boots and walk out into the main area just as Angus walks back in sporting a swollen lip and a black eye.
"I'm glad you made me take those painkillers, this eye is gonna hurt." Angus mutters, grabbing an icepack.
"I must have heard you wrong, you couldn't possibly be thanking me." I quip, smirking.
"Yeah, you musta hit me pretty hard; addled my brains." Angus says, sitting down. Up close, I can see his forehead and back are slick with sweat. Only then do I realize we're alone.
"Where's Miko and the others?" I ask.
"Infirmary. Hersh decided to switch out Grant for Bosley." Angus grunts. That explains the eye. I think, shaking my head. Bosley is the only other fighter that can match Angus in sheer muscle mass, but he isn't that bright. He must have gotten a few lucky shots, but Angus still must have gotten the upper hand.
"Single tap?" I ask. Single tap means may the best win. Angus just nods. No surprise really, if the profits are equal either way, Hersh likes to give the audience an impressive fight. Sometimes I think Hersh should have been born a Gamemaker, not that he'd let any of us die on purpose.
Angus and I sit in silence until the others arrive. Even Bosley makes it, though his left ankle is bound and he has to be supported by Miko. Everyone shuffles in like they do at the end of a long night of fighting, shoulders slumped, heads bowed, nursing new injuries and smarting from old ones. Last to arrive are Hersh and Justin, carrying the strong box full of the nights profits.
"Great job, everyone! That was some tough fighting out there tonight. Bosley, I want you to keep off that foot as much as you can, just because we don't fight during the Hunger Games doesn't mean you should go walking around, reinjuring it." Hersh says.
"I'll get a pass from the peacekeeper to stay home tomorrow and watch the Reaping on T.V." He says.
"Good, now I'll see you all in a few weeks." Hersh says. He then motions for Justin to hand out our cuts for the night. Justin gives me a wink as he hands me my envelope. It feels really heavy and I can't help but smile, extra cash before the Hunger Games will help, especially since I splurged on new reaping outfits for me and Ian this year. It's his first Hunger Games, and my old Reaping outfit was far too tight.
I say my goodbyes and wish Justin, Austin and Miko luck for tomorrow. Everyone else is old enough to be safe, but we are still in danger of being reaped. Justin is 17 and his brother, Austin, is 15, but Miko is only 14 and I'd hate to see him, or any of them, reaped.
I pull on my leather jacket and slip out the back door before everyone else. I pull up my collar against the chilly wind blowing even though it's still summer. The air feels charged, and I look up at the dark clouds that are already beginning to cover the moon. There'll be a storm tonight, I'd bet my hide on that.
Walking quickly along the road, I take advantage of the diminishing moonlight to open my envelope. $1500, more than enough to get us through the month. I know Hersh threw in an extra $500 to help cover the time off. Hersh doesn't run the arena during the Hunger Games simply because everyone gets more than their fill of gory fighting on T.V. and doesn't bother to come.
Tonight's paycheck is large, even for me. Hersh gives 30% of profit from each fight to the fighters involved. I was only slated for one fight tonight, so I'm surprised I got $1000 for it. I try to think of what that means for Hersh if $1000 constitutes half of 30%. In school I might have been able to reason it out, but tonight I'm too tired and sore to bother. I know it's a lot though, whatever the number.
Tucking the money into my coat pocket, I shuffle along, my boots crunching on the gravel path. All of the paths outside of the city are gravel. Apparently the Capitol thought that only the city roads mattered, because they didn't bother to pave any of the country roads, except the main one that leads to town.
I veer off the road and take a short cut across a field. During the day, the farmer that owns the field lets cattle roam the pastures, but they're always in for the night by the time I cut through to get home.
Three fields, and half a dozen fences later, I finally reach the scraggly, bush strewn field that surrounds the edge of town. A few hours ago, the buildings may have had lights shining from the windows, but by now, everyone in their right mind is asleep, resting for tomorrow.
I pass the rodeo grounds and approach a small, rundown house on the very edges of town. I note that the weeds are starting to run wild again, and will need to be removed soon so they don't choke out the front path. The house looks tired and sad, even in the dark. The shed that passes for a garage, leans sharply to one side, it's door rusted 3/4ths of the way open. Inside sits a rusted out car on blocks because we can't afford to get it serviced, and can't drive it anywhere even if we did. The house itself is clapboard and listing slightly, it's once-cheery red paint faded to a dull pink. I know the windows are grimy, even if I can't see them.
Despite all this, I know that what's inside is even uglier.
The first fat raindrops land as I step on to the creaky, old, wood porch. Taking the key out from its hiding place, I insert it into the lock, jiggling it a little until I hear a click. The door swings inward with a loud squeak and I wince, hoping the noise doesn't wake up my mom.
Inside the dimly lit living room, I tiptoe past the sleeping form of my mom. In one hand she has a large bottle loosely grasped and only a quarter full of some clear liquid. I don't have to look closer to know what it is. Murphy is the only one who makes and sells liquor in District 10, a homemade brew called moonshine, and my mom reeks of it.
In my bedroom, I just have time to strip down to my underwear and fall into bed with a moan, before I'm dead asleep.
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