I hated it when my skirts got stained with blood, and that's exactly why I hiked them up and watched where I stepped as I wandered toward the noise of other people. Being too familiar with that all-but-abandoned... wait. Secret location; right, right. The most I can say is the Raleigh Catacombs were fucking extensive, and operated by a dangerous man and his brothers -- I was heading for a certain dead end within them. It reeked of sweat and random trash, but that was only before the actual entrance to deter everyone but those who were trying to get there. The brick walls were probably centuries older than myself, and the cobbled floor too. I reached the end and was able to fit through the sewer grate that hid my destination.
The place was bright from kerosene lamps and lighters, whose users also contributed to the smokiness. There was a bar off to the left, and a pit that had been dug into the ground long ago for cockfighting, but expanded for... well, human fighting — only guardrail it had was your own ability to not get pushed in by the crowds. I took a cigarette from an untouched pack clutched in some dead dude's hand and used the flame of an open light to get it going. A lot of those littered the space around me, and many of their faces had been bludgeoned beyond recognition and their limbs bent in the wrong directions. Got their asses kicked pretty good, I guessed.
"Vee," I called after coughing from the first huff of smoke, tossing the smoke down and crushing it under my heel -- the taste was atrocious. I felt I was in no danger of becoming another corpse in the pile, as showing my leg was practically my ticket into being accepted in such an area. That thing was my protection, my proof, and part of my legacy. "Hey, y'know that one-legged hooker on Fayetteville?" Yeah, they're talking about me.
I caught a glimpse of Vincent wrapping his hands and ran toward him to say hello. God, I loved his athletic wear, especially when he toed the line of his religious modesty -- a nearly-skintight athletic top and the flared pants he wore, which otherwise only stuffed the back of his closet when he wasn't fighting, looked gorgeous. I liked his arms, even if they were hidden under opaque fabric.
"So," I began, "do we have time now?"
He sniffed. "No, no, no. I got one more to go before the finals, and then we have a day break so they can clean up. That's plenty of time," he looked down at me, "Did you bring my eye?"
"Oh! Yes, uh..." I dug through my pockets for the thin piece of glass with a brown iris skillfully colored into it, and I got his consent to put it in myself since he would sometimes do it backward. Every time I got to choose his false eye for a fight, I chose that one just because it reminded me of the gleam in his eyes when we first met. Plus, it could distract his opponent on which eye he was blinded in, if they didn't already know it was both. He blinked and cemented the prosthetic in place, and my stomach (as per usual) dropped when the muscles in his socket moved it very naturally -- I had no reason other than it made me sick due to how far into the past it threw me.
"Hey, check out the bracket." He vaguely gestured to the large tapestry on the wall, with handwritten names on pieces of paper stapled to it. I knew the symbols — a cross meant they got knocked out, a circle meant they'd gotten knocked into hell and I'd probably stepped on their fingers, and just being scribbled out meant they lost a draw. I glanced around for Vee's name, which he always wrote in rough cursive. That shit was so difficult to read. I found him and traced my finger along his three fights up until then. Crossed out his opponent, he moved ahead. Circle, he moved ahead. Cross, he moved ahead. Rough start, but he got his licks in — so did the other guys, it looked like, as Vee's nose was bleeding. It was sandwiched by parallel bars and tape in a makeshift cast, though it was done pretty well; I mean, as the one with medical education, I'm allowed to be critical of stent handiwork. The rest of his face, however, appeared prideful. I mean, that was understandable. His brows were high with adrenaline.
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Athazagoraphobia
Ficción históricaPLEASE COMMENT EDITS/THOUGHTS, I APPRECIATE ANY INPUT!! TY!! THIS IS AN INTERMEDIATE DRAFT -=-=-=- In the captivating novel "Athazagoraphobia," journey into the intricate world of Isabelle Lindroos, a woman who grapples with a haunting fear: forge...