When I was a child, around twelve years old, I used to lie awake in my bed, listening intently to the sound of my sister's breathing, waiting anxiously for it to slow to a steady rhythm. Only then, when she was fast asleep, could I swing my legs over the side of my creaky bed, and lunge across the floor toward the door that was nearly falling off it's hinges. The handle would squeak when my bony fingers gripped and twisted it, and I would cringe at each and every little noise. Kara, however, would never stir.
She was ever the heavy sleeper, which only made it easier for me to escape.
I would slip past the door, into the kitchen where the scent of stew from dinner still lingered. I'd take a surveying glance around, listening for any small noise that would send me flying back to my bedroom. There never was any. That's what I liked so much about the night.
The stillness.
And in that intense quiet, I would creep past the kitchen counter with a rather large chunk missing out of it, past the fridge that, too, was asleep, into the living room where my reflection would pass in the television screen. It always spent more time off than on. We hadn't had the time nor the funds to keep it running.
Months prior, when I first started failing to stay in my room all night, I had always gotten startled by the sight of my reflection. It didn't belong. Peering back at me, devoid of color, in the calmness of the night.
I learned after a while, somethings would never change, and I got used to it.
Just like I did with the front door and it's combination of musical whines. I had to be careful when opening it, as it never failed to creak in the most hearty tone possible. Normally, I stood there for a solid minute and a half, easing it open, and stopping every few seconds to hear if anyone had heard and was rushing toward the disturbance.
No one had.
When I was finally able to slip outside, I was met by a calming gust of wind, enveloping me like a warm blanket. Only then, would I release the breath I had been holding. My shoulders would slump as the a nearly visible weight would fall from my shoulders. I knew the consequences of sneaking out, but I had never cared. I had to go.
The night called me like a foghorn, making it impossible to sleep with the fascination growing in my mind at what the night could hold. And as the horn blew, I would always answer.
In the dim light of the porch, my eyes would find the building sparkling with multicolor lights to the west and then my feet would follow. I remember how clearly my fathers words would hum in my ears like music notes that could never stop repeating.
Stay away.
They'd go over and over, louder and louder, until eventually I began to run. And over the sound of the leaves crunching beneath my feet, I could not hear the words any longer.
I had always relished in the feeling of the wind against my face, the sound of the trees whistling as the wind changed direction, and the feeling of the warm summer air on my skin, but the real excitement never began until I stepped through the threshold of the building.
Usually, I never hesitated to enter, but one night, my last night, I had. Something invisible and sturdy kept me from walking through, and I stood outside the double doors that had been propped open, and stopped. Stopped moving, breathing. But my thoughts kept on.
Should I do this?
The comfort of nature around me was welcoming, but gave me no help in the question that had posed itself.
There was a sick, churning feeling in my stomach, probably from the nights dinner, and my foot instinctively moved a hair back toward my house. And then the music started.
Loud, and booming through the noise of a thousand people cheering, it had reached my ears. And had been the sole deciding factor.
Without another thought, I stepped into the building.
It was dark at first, incredibly dark that I couldn't even see. I moved without looking, and kept in mind the lights that would soon blind my eyes. I was only about twenty steps in when I saw them.
Gold and yellow, shining brightly off in the distance. They split off at the corners, fading into darkness.
I followed the light and began to hear more cheers. They rose like thunder, crackling and piercing. No doubt my ears were spilling blood, but my hand came up empty. I continued to move, toward, the noise, toward the excitement, until I saw it.
I was on a balcony, standing tall overtop an arena, where crowds aligned the walls below. The glittering lights shine down from the rooftop of ancient stone into the arena at the very bottom of the building. I looked at each and every being, jumping and jeering on the sight before them. Some of them wore gold hats that swirled around their ears, while the only the decoration the others had was the paper money, clutched in their fists, swatting through the air.
I gripped the banister in front of me and turned my hungry gaze to the arena. From that high up, it was difficult to see, but I could just make out two figures standing opposite of each other and nearly smell the metallic scent of spilled blood.
The crowd silenced as the two fighters surrounded each other, both with visible injuries to their bodies. I pressed a hand to my mouth as I watched, amazed by their bravery.
I had never been allowed in here, not by my father, and I learned quickly why that was. The Roman Tournaments weren't something my father supported, nor wished to see. But there was always something about it that amazed me. It wasn't so much the fighting as it was the courage, the honor they must feel. My father simply called those feelings childish and said I never understood the reality of the situation. I suppose that's what drove me there.
These matches were common, happening nearly every night for me to sneak into. I never stayed the whole time, just enough to settle that yearning feeling I had in my stomach for something exciting.
I bit my nails as I placed my own bet on the man in the white shirt. I spent more than a few moments deciphering it's color as it was already stained with crimson.
The crowd cheers again as the man in white landed a rather sickening blow to his opponent, and I yelled along with them.
This is it. This is what I had been waiting for.
Excitement.
I watched absentmindedly as I wondered how much honor one must feel winning such a match. How everyone must want to meet them. How famous they must be.
The match didn't last much longer. Blows were traded before the man in white, the one I had been betting on, had put the other man in some sort of hold. As he turned blue in the face, the man threw his fist down in anger and he was released. That was the end.
I smiled to myself as I turned around, preparing to beat the crowd that was surely going to be flooding from the doors, but instead I walked straight into someone. A stranger.
I stumbled backwards, my back hitting the railing before I regained composure and looked toward the intruder.
It was a man. Slender and tall, towering over my petite figure with a smirk upon his lips. He was rather attractive with icy blue eyes and raven black hair that was slicked back at the sides. There was a single curl on his forehead that kept falling into the ice blue abyss that was his eyes.
I felt a blush rise to my cheeks as my hands moved to smooth down my clothes. They were rather raggedy compared to his crisp black suit and I felt small in comparison.
His smirk only grew as he watched me, and the room suddenly went silent. I couldn't hear the crowd below cheering or shuffling their feet to get out of there. I could only hear the sound of my own breathing and his.
Until he spoke.
"Hello, dear," His words were like a knife, shattering the silence and curling like smoke into my ears. It wasn't just the silence that had been destroyed. My vision of him was as well. He wasn't quite so handsome anymore, or intriguing. Instead he was intimidating and I could feel my knees begin to shake. I shouldn't have come here. "What's a young girl like you doing up here?"
A question. He asked me a question, though I could barely hear it over my hammering heart. I could get into trouble for this if my father ever found out. I wasn't supposed to be here. I shouldn't be here.
I force myself to calm down, though it doesn't do much as my words still shake.
"I- I came to... watch the match." I reply, flinching as his eyebrows begin to narrow. He has figured it out, hasn't he?
I need to get out of here, away from him, away from this growing, gut wrenching feeling in my stomach.
My foot takes an instinctive step toward the exit, but my head thinks better of it. I will surely be caught if I tried to run. I need to convince him there's nothing to be caught for.
My mouth moves but no words come out. Something, I have to tell him something. Anything to erase the taunting look from his face.
"I-" My words trail off, and to my relief, the sound of the intercom leaves no room for questioning.
I turn toward the voice, gruff and booming over the speaker, though I can still feel his eyes on me. They feel like a slow burn, spreading throughout my body. The curiosity, as always, gets the better of me, however, and I'm squinting, looking up into the corners of the room, searching for the sound. It's just a jumble of noises and breathing for a moment before it actually becomes comprehensible.
"Gentlemen and women, please keep to your seats for the excitement is not over," I spot the speaker in the right corner as the woman continues to talk. "Tonight's match will be different. We will continue to have a Victor, but the rules have been adapted. Our Victor will be chosen by the last man standing. A fight to the death."
A gasp. Not just from me, from the crowd. A million of them, all at once. And then they turn into cheers.
Confusion settles on me like a dark cloud, smothering my thoughts.
How could they be excited about that?
There's no honor in murder.
I begin to think of the bloodbath it will turn into, and suddenly wish I would've been caught tonight before I could come here.
"Take a look then. See what you came to see." He suggests, sweeping one pale hand in the direction of the arena below.
It's not a question.
I turn. Not because I want to. I have to.
My body is shaking and though my eyes strain to be shut, I don't let them. I don't want to know what he'll do if I don't listen.
The shaky hands that grip the railing so hard the knuckles are ghost white can't be mine. Can they?
When did this exhilarating night turn into something so dreadful? When did it turn into a war zone?
The deep breath does nothing to calm me as I look down at the sight ahead. I'm just in time to see the one man, who I had previously thought a god, shove a sword through his opponents stomach. There's a waterfall of blood, pouring from the man like rain on a cloudy day. Even from here, I can see his struggle to keep breathing and how short his fight is.
Within seconds the man is dead.
More cheers, though I cannot hear them.
Are those tears I feel, dripping down my cheeks? I taste their saltiness and decide they are. I tell myself the churning feeling in my stomach is from dinner and not seeing a man get murdered.
I don't believe it.
I do, however believe the numbness that spreads over my body. As though I can't feel anything but the grief and depression that begins to claim my body.
They shouldn't be like this.
They weren't meant for killing.
I feel hatred for the murderer I once took a joyful bet on, but soon I wonder if the real monster is myself.
I watched and did nothing.
How can I be anything else?
"Electrifying, isn't it?" The man says, and I glance toward him in time to see his satisfied smile. How can he be happy in a time like this?
He takes a step toward me, in his pristine black shoes, and leans down the slightest bit, to be eye to eye with me. "I'm Demir, and you are?"
I blink back at him, forgetting my name, forgetting everything but the sight I just witnessed. But then he straightens up and glares down at me, sparking me into action.
"Victoria." I mutter. I wonder if he can hear how the words sounds hesitant.
Instead, he grins, an evil, glittering thing, showing teeth that vaguely resemble fangs. "Well Victoria, someday that'll be you. A victor."
That was the last night I ever snuck out to the Coliseum and the last night I spent at home.
And since then the one question that has been playing over and over in my head; what if I had never left?
YOU ARE READING
Seven Matches
FantasyI expect to see his retreating form, shoulders sunken with defeat, footsteps heavy against the concrete floor. Instead, I feel a hand gripping my throat, squeezing tighter and tighter every second, and I open my eyes just in time to see his face. Th...