Playing with Matches

                The crowd was thick around the fight, their breath fanning out in white clouds as they huddled close together, trying to see the action just a little bit better. Standing back, in a dark corner, I can almost believe that they’re watching something that isn’t brutal and totally terrifying. However, the sound of flesh hitting flesh and the pained moans of the fighters remind me once again that nothing I see here is innocent. They’re all here to watch people fight, fight until they’re too hurt to go on.

                Of course, street fighting is about more than just the actual fight. The enjoyment they get comes from the gambling that’s involved. Money hungry, they come out no matter the weather to try and win a few bucks off the suffering of another man, like it isn’t one of the most inhumane things in existence.

                A frown touches my lips as another murmur of surprise goes through the crowd, letting me know that this fight isn’t going the way they thought it would. That could be good, or bad, depending on who it is that is surprising them. The fighters aren’t the only ones known for their violence, hence the fact that I’m half hidden behind a dumpster, keeping silent and trying not to draw attention to myself. The other women in the crowds are in skimpy dresses and flashy skirts, showing more skin than is allowed even at a strip joint, their golden skin their ticket to fame.

                Even with the temperature dropping by the minute, few of them have coats on and the ones that do are small fur monstrosities that are laden with glitter. They hold no real warmth and don’t cover much more than the dresses, making me want to wince in sympathy.

                My own jeans and sweatshirt combo barely keeps out the cold, which might have a little to do with the holes in the knees. Big and gaping, they were hard won through a rough and tumble fight with two of my older brothers, not the artificial holes you see in jeans nowadays. My sweatshirt hits my knees and does its best to keep me from freezing, the material thin from use. Stealing clothes from said brothers makes half my wardrobe overused and threadbare, not that I usually mind.

                It’s on days like tonight, when Ryan insists he has a good bet, that turn my lips blue and ring shivers from me. I try to ignore the fact that I can’t feel my toes anymore, carefully watching where Ryan is chatting with one of the fight coordinators, a cheeky man I never bothered to remember the name of.

                He’s shaking his head and I know that Ryan had to have lost his bet, meaning he’ll have to fight in the next round or we won’t be getting groceries this week. With the three oldest of my brothers gone, all I have is Ryan and Ricky, who is nowhere to be found. He’s the breadwinner in the house and he’ll beat Ryan senseless if he finds out he lost five hundred dollars in one night.

                My eyes flicker to the commotion that erupts, watching as the girls start to walk away, their heels clacking as they make their way out of the alley and into the night, the men shouting obscenities at one another and money flying through hands. The fighters grumble as the crowd dissipates, replaced by a more alarming noise.

                Sirens.

                Adrenaline floods my system as I wait for Ryan to come and find me, because he has to come. He won’t leave me here, to get caught, right? None of my brothers are that stupid, not even Ryan…

                The thoughts leave my mind as flashing lights illuminate the otherwise dark alley, my brother coming sprinting towards me.

                “Come on!” He doesn’t wait for me to respond, just reaches out and snags my wrist, dragging me deeper into the alley.