Despite my best efforts I had fallen asleep. But when I awoke my brother was beside me, cleaned and dressed. But even dressed I was scared he had fozen in the night, until I heard his soft cries. I scrambled to his side, holding him to me, trying to keep him warm.
My mothers body was gone. The Man must have taken her away when he brought my brother back. I cursed myself quietly for falling asleep, but at least no harm had come to him in my weakness.
Beside the cage door was a bottle, tossed carelessly onto its side. Considering it a blessing, I fed my brother, praying it would keep it quiet. The Man inside didn't like a lot of noise from me or my mother, too much talking or crying meant beatings, and an infant certainly couldn't survive that.
In a moment, now with my brother truly in my keeping, my reality set in.
I was alone. I knew nothing. Nothing of taking care of myself, nothing of taking care of a baby. My mother was gone, and we didn't stand a chance. It wasn't fair. How could she die when I needed her, when my brother needed her? It wasn't fair. I dried my face, knowing that there was no point. All I could do was try. And I would, for my brother.
When the man came to the door I scuffled into a back corner, as far as I could from him. It wasn't out of the ordinary for him to kick me if I got in the way, so I learned quickly to stay away whenever he entered. He simply placed a large bowl of cooked meat.
I knew what it was. We never got cooked meat unless something had died in the yard. I choked back my tears, knowing he didn't want to see or hear them.
"You'll eat it. You won't get anything else." He said, and he left.
I did eat. Not at first. But I ate. It took two days for me to give in. After the first few pieces I vomited, and I thought I'd rather starve. But I couldn't. Not with my brother relying on me. And so I stomached it, and I ate.
A baby, however, cannot eat cooked meat. The Man seemed to understand this, and would provide us with full bottles every day. I figured he must be raising up my brother for the same purpose as myself, for his fighting. My brother was so frail looking I wondered if he would ever survive a fight, even when he was older. But mother had said I was frail too, and I always won in the fights…
The fights always took place in another yard. He would load me into the back seat of a rusty old truck and tell me to stay quiet. Don't make a fuss. Just keep quiet and calm. Then we would arrive at a big grassy lot, with a cage in the middle. There was other men, there with their fighters. There was rules, you could only fight once, and you had to pin your fighter against someone close to the same age and size. The fight ended when one was unresponsive. They would usually die.
I hated the fights, but I was usually rewarded after them, so even if it hurt it wasn't too bad. When I fought well, and I always did, we would be given lots of food, a real meal as my mother called it.
I tried to shake off these thoughts. My brother wouldn't fight until he was grown more, fighters had to be at least 4 or 5, and a certain weight. It would be a long time until then.
With my brother cradled safely in my lap, I fell asleep, half curled into the back corner of my cage, dreaming of escape.