by Morgan Rice
I ran into the streets screaming her name, looking for her everywhere. I checked down every alley she liked to play in—but she was nowhere to be found. My dread deepened.
And then I heard a faint screaming in the distance. I recognized her voice, and I sprinted towards it.
After a few blocks, the screaming grew louder. Finally, I turned down a narrow alleyway and saw her.
Bree was standing at the end of an alley, surrounded by a group of attackers. There were six of them, teenage boys. One of them reached out and tore her shirt while another pulled her ponytail. She swung her backpack to try to fend them off, but it did little good. I could tell that in a matter of moments, they would rape her. So I did the only thing I could do: I lit the Molotov cocktail and threw it at the foot of the largest boy I could find….
I am jolted out of my memories by the sudden sound of creaking metal, a door slowly opening, of light flooding the room, then the door slamming. I hear chains, then footsteps, and sense another body near me in the blackness. I look up.
I’m relieved to see that it is Ben. I don’t know how much time has passed, or how long I’ve been sitting here. I sit up slowly.
Our cell is lit by dim, emergency bulbs, red, encased in metal, high up along the wall. It is just enough to see by. Ben stumbles into the cell, disoriented; he doesn’t even realize I’m here.
“Ben!” I whisper, my voice hoarse.
He wheels and sees me, and his eyes open wide in surprise.
“Brooke?” he asks tentatively.
I struggle to get to my feet, aches and pains tearing through every part of my body as I take a knee. Ben runs over, grabs my arm, and helps me stand up. I know I should be grateful for his help, but instead, I find myself resenting it: it is the first time he has touched me, and it was uninvited, and that makes me feel funny. Plus, I don’t like being helped by people in general—and especially by a boy.
So I shake off his arm and stand on my own.
“I can handle myself,” I snap at him, and my words come out too harsh. I regret it, wishing that, instead, I told him how I really felt. I wish I’d said: I’m happy you’re alive. I’m relieved that you’re here, with me.
As I think about it, I realize that I don’t quite understand why I am so happy to see him. Maybe I’m just happy to see another regular person like me, another survivor in the midst of all these mercenaries. Maybe it’s because we’ve both suffered through the same ordeal in the last 24 hours, or maybe because we’ve both lost our siblings.
Or maybe, I hesitate to wonder, it’s something else.
Ben stares back at me with his large blue eyes, and for a brief moment, I find myself losing my sense of time. His are eyes are so sensitive, so out of place here. They are the eyes of a poet, or painter—an artist, a tortured soul.
I force myself to look away. There’s something about those eyes that makes me unable to think clearly when I look back at them. I don’t know what it is, and that bothers me. I’ve never felt this way about a boy before. I can’t help wondering if I just feel connected to Ben because of our shared circumstance, or if it’s something else.
To be sure, there have been many moments when I was annoyed and angry with him—and I still find myself blaming him for everything that happened. For example, if I hadn’t stopped and saved him on the highway, maybe I’d have rescued Bree and been back home by now. Or if he hadn’t dropped my gun out the window, maybe I could have saved her in Central Park. And I wish he was stronger, more of a fighter. But at the same time, there is something about him which makes me feel close to him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, flustered, and his voice is already that of a broken man. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Slowly, I soften. I realize it’s not his fault. He’s not the bad guy.
“Where did they take you?” I ask.
“To their leader. He asked me to join them.”
“Did you accept?” I ask. My heart flutters as I wait for the answer. If he says yes, I would think so much less of him; in fact, I wouldn’t even be able to look at him again.
“Of course not,” he says.
My heart swells with relief and admiration. I know what a sacrifice that is. Like me, he has just written his own death sentence.
“Did you?” he asks.
“What do you think?” I say.
“No,” he says. “I suspect not.”
I look over and see that he cradles one of his fingers, which is bent out of shape. He looks like he’s in pain.
“What happened?” I ask.
He looks down at his finger. “It’s from the car accident.”
“Which one?” I ask, and can’t help but break into a small, wry smile, thinking of all the accidents we had in the last 24 hours.
He smiles back, even as he winces in pain. “The last one. When you decided to crash into a train. Nice move,” he says, and I can’t tell whether he means it or is being sarcastic.
“My brother was on the train,” he adds. “Did you see him?”
“I saw him board,” I say. “Then I lost him.”
“Do you know where the train was going?”
I shake my head. “Did you see my sister on it?”
He shakes his head. “I couldn’t really tell. It all happened so fast.”
He looks down, distraught. A heavy silence follows. He seems so lost. The sight of his crooked finger bothers me, and my heart goes out to him. I decide to stop being so edgy, and to show him some compassion.
I reach out and take his injured hand in both of mine. He looks up at me, surprised.
His skin is smoother than I’d expected; it feels as if he’s never worked a day in his life. I hold his fingertips gently in mine, and am surprised to feel slight butterflies in my stomach.
“Let me help you,” I say, softly. “This is going to hurt. But it needs to be done. We have to straighten it before it sets,” I add, lifting his broken finger and examining it. I think back to when I was young, when I’d fallen in the street and come in with a broken pinky finger. Mom had insisted on taking me to a hospital. Dad had refused, and had taken my finger in his hands and snapped it back into place in one quick motion, before my Mom could react. I had screamed in pain, and I remember even now how much it hurt. But it worked.
Ben looks back at me with fear in his eyes.
“I hope you know what you’re doing—”
Before he can finish, I have already snapped his crooked finger back into place.
He screams out, and backs away from me, holding his hand.
“Damn it!” he screams, pacing around, holding his hand. Soon he calms, breathing hard. “You should have warned me!”
I tear a thin strip of cloth off of my sleeve, take his hand again, and tie the injured finger to its neighbor. It is a lame stint, but it will have to do. Ben stands inches away, and I can feel him looking down at me.
“Thanks,” he whispers, and there is something in his voice, something intimate, that I haven’t sensed before.
I feel the butterflies again, and suddenly feel I am too close to him. I need to stay clear-headed, strong, detached. I back away quickly, walking over to my side of the cell.
I glance over and see that Ben looks disappointed. He also looks exhausted, dejected. He leans back to the wall, and slowly slumps down to a sitting position, resting his head on his knees.
It’s a good idea. I do the same, suddenly feeling the exhaustion in my legs.
I take a seat opposite him in the cell, and lower my head into my hands. I’m so hungry. So tired. Everything aches. I would do anything for food, water, painkillers, a bed. A hot shower. I just want to sleep—forever. I just want this whole thing behind me. If I’m going to die, I just want it to happen quickly.
We sit there for I don’t know how long, both in silence. Maybe an hour passes, maybe two. I can’t keep track anymore.
I hear the sound of his belabored breathing, through his broken nose, and my heart goes out to him. I wonde
r if he’s fallen asleep. I wonder when they will come for us, when I will hear those boots again, marching us to our deaths.
Ben’s voice fills the air, a soft, sad, broken voice: “I just want to know where they took my brother,” he says, softly. I can hear the pain in his voice, how much he cares for him. It makes me think of Bree.
I feel the need to force myself to be tough, to force myself to stop all of this self-pitying.
“Why?” I snap back. “What good would it do? There’s nothing we can do about it anyway.” But in truth, I want to know the same thing—where they’ve taken her.
Ben shakes his head sadly, looking crushed.
“I just want to know,” he says softly. “For my own sake. Just to know.”
I sigh, trying not to think of it, not to think about what’s happening to her right now. About whether she thinks I’ve let her down. Abandoned her.
“Did they tell you they’re putting you in the arena?” he asks. I can hear the fear in his voice.
My heart flutters at the thought. Slowly, I nod.
“You?” I ask, already guessing the answer.
Grimly, he nods back.
“They say no one survives,” he says.
“I know,” I snap back. I don’t need reminding of this. In fact, I don’t want to think about it at all.
“So, what are you gonna do?” he asks.
I look back at him.
“What do you mean? It’s not like I have any options.”
“You seem to have a way out of everything,” he says. “Some last-minute way of dodging things. What’s your way out of this one?”
I shake my head. I’ve been wondering the same thing, but to no avail.
“I’m out of ways,” I say. “I’ve got nothing.”
“So that’s it?” he snaps back, annoyed. “You’re just going to give up? Let them bring you to the arena? Kill you?”
“What else is there?” I snap back, annoyed myself.
He squirms. “I don’t know,” he says. “You must have a plan. We can’t just sit here. We can’t just let them march us off to our deaths. Something.”
I shake my head. I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I’m hurt. I’m starving. This room is solid metal. There are hundreds of armed guards out there. We’re underground somewhere. I don’t even know where. We have no weapons. There’s nothing we can do. Nothing.
Except one thing, I realize. I can go down fighting.
“I’m not letting them march me to my death,” I suddenly say, in the darkness.
He looks up at me. “What do you mean?”
“I’m going to fight,” I say. “In the arena.”
Ben laughs, more like a derisive snort.
“You’re kidding. Arena One is filled with professional killers. And even those killers get killed. No one survives. Ever. It’s just a prolonged death sentence. For their amusement.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t try,” I snap back, my voice rising, furious at his pessimism.
But Ben just looks back down, head in his hands, and shakes his head.
“Well, I won’t stand a chance,” he says.
“If you think that way, then you won’t,” I snap back. It is a phrase that Dad often used with me, and I am surprised to hear those same words now coming out of my mouth. It disturbs me, as I wonder how much of him, exactly, I’ve absorbed. I can hear the toughness in my own voice, a toughness I never recognized until this day, and I almost feel as if he’s speaking through me. It’s an eerie feeling.
“Ben,” I say. “If you think you can survive, if you can see yourself surviving, then you will. It’s about what you force yourself to imagine in your head. About what you tell yourself.”
“That’s just lying to yourself,” Ben says.
“No it’s not,” I answer. “It’s training yourself. There’s a difference. It’s seeing your own future, the way you want it to be, and creating it in your head, and then making it happen. If you can’t see it, then you can’t create it.”
“You sound like you actually believe you can survive,” Ben says, sounding amazed.
“I don’t believe it,” I snap. “I know it. I am going to survive. I will survive,” I hear myself saying, with growing confidence. I have always had an ability to psych myself up, to get myself so into a head that there’s no turning back. Despite everything, I find myself swelling with a newfound confidence, a new optimism.
And suddenly, at that moment, I make a decision: I am determined to survive. Not for me. But for Bree. After all, I don’t know that she is dead yet. She might be alive. And the only chance I have of saving her is if I can stay alive. If I survive this arena. And if that’s what it takes, then that is what I will do.
I will survive.
I don’t see why I wouldn’t stand a chance. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s fight. That’s what I’ve been raised to be good at. I’ve been in a ring before. I’ve gotten my butt kicked. And I’ve gotten stronger for it. I’m not afraid.
“So then how are you going to win?” Ben asks. This time his question sounds genuine, sounds as if he really believes I might. Maybe something in my voice has convinced him.
“I don’t need to win,” I say back, calmly. “That’s the thing. I only need to survive.”
Barely do I finish uttering the words when I hear the sound of combat boots marching down the hall. A moment later, there comes the sound of our door opening.
They have come for me.
F I F T E E N
Our cell door groans open and light floods in from the hallway. I raise my hands to my eyes, shielding them, and see the silhouette of a slaverunner. I expect him to march over and take me away, but instead he leans down, drops something hard and plastic on the floor, and kicks it. It scrapes across the floor and stops abruptly as it slams against my foot.
“Your last meal,” he announces in a dark voice.
Then he marches out and slams the door, locking it.
I can already smell the food from here, and my stomach reacts with a sharp hunger pang. I lean over and pick up the plastic container carefully, barely able to make it out in the dim light: it is long and flat, sealed with a foil top. I pull back the foil and immediately the smell of food—real, cooked food, which I haven’t had in years—comes rushing up at me, even more powerful. It smells like steak. And chicken. And potatoes. I lean over and examine it: there is a large, juicy steak, two chicken legs, mashed potatoes, and vegetables. It is the best smell of my life. I feel guilty that Bree is not here to share it.
I wonder why they’ve given me such an extravagant meal, and then I realize it’s not an act of kindness, but a self-serving act: they want me strong for the arena. Perhaps they are also tempting me one last time, offering me a preview of what life would be like if I accept their offer. Real meals. Hot food. A life of luxury.
As the smell infiltrates every pore of my body, their offer becomes more tempting. I haven’t smelled real food in years. I suddenly realized how hungry I am, how malnourished, and I seriously wonder if, without this meal, I would even have strength to fight.
Ben sits up and leans forward, looking over. Of course. I suddenly feel selfish for not thinking of him. He must be as starving as I am, and I am sure the smell, which fills the room, is driving him crazy.
“Share it with me,” I say in the darkness. It takes all my willpower to make this offer—but it is the right thing to do.
He shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “They said it was for you. Have it. When they come for me, they’ll give me a meal, too. You need this now. You’re the one that’s about to fight.”
He’s right. I do need it now. Especially because I don’t just plan on fighting—I plan on winning.
It doesn’t take much convincing. The smell of the food overwhelms me, and I reach out and grab the chicken leg and devour it in seconds. I take bite after bite, barely slowing to swallow. It is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. But I force myself to set one of
the chicken legs aside, saving it for Ben. Ben might get his own meal—or he might not. Either way, after all we’ve been through, I feel it’s only right to share.
I turn to the mashed potatoes, using my fingers to shovel them into my mouth. My stomach growls in pain, and I realize I need this meal, more than any meal I’ve ever had. My body screams out for me to take another bite, and another. I eat way too fast, and within moments, I’ve devoured more than half of them. I force myself to save the rest for Ben.
I lift the steak with my fingers and take big bites, chewing slowly, trying to savor each morsel. It is the best thing I’ve had in my life. If this turns out to be my last meal, I’d be content with it. I save half the steak and move on to the vegetables, eating only half of these. Within moments, I’m done—and I still don’t feel satisfied. I look down at what I set aside for Ben and want to devour every last bite. But I summon my willpower, slowly rise to my feet, cross the room, and hold the tray out before him.
He sits there, head resting on his knees, not looking up. He’s the most defeated-looking person I’ve ever seen. If it were me sitting there, I would have watched him eat every bite, would have imagined what it tasted like. But it seems that he just has no will left to live.
He must smell the food, so close, because he finally raises his head. He looks up at me, eyes open in surprise. I smile.
“You didn’t really think I’d eat it all, did you?” I ask.
He smiles, but shakes his head and lowers it. “I can’t,” he says. “It’s yours.”
“It’s yours now,” I say, and shove it into his hands. He has no choice but to take it.
“But it’s not fair—” he begins.
“I’ve had enough,” I lie. “Plus, I need to stay light for the fight. I can’t maneuver on a full stomach, can I?”
My lie isn’t very convincing, and I can tell he doesn’t really buy it. But I can also see the effect the smell of the food has on him, can see his primal urge taking over. It is the same impulse I felt just a few minutes ago.
