Violet

For the first time ever, I twist the ring anxiously.

            The last time I felt this thing – fear – was just before my first fight. I had not been trained. I had not been helped. I had not been informed. But I had been spared.

            Outside these walls, I’m sure this place is called something other than simply the Jail. I’m sure our captors are called something other than wasps. I’m sure our jailer is called something other than the Dragon. I know for a fact that outside these walls I am known as something other than Beth.

            Outside these walls, I am known as Violet.

            The name derives from the ring I wear – have worn since my first week here. The ring I wear is the Victor’s Treasure, the beautiful amethyst ring awarded to the most able fighter of the week.

            Every seven days, one of us girls is picked at random to die. Some say they are killed in front of the ravenous crowd. Others deny this claim; call it nothing more than a child’s rumor, started by some poor girl who lost her mind in here. It’s not like there’s any shortage of those.

            I have never been at risk. The ring protects me – whichever girl possesses the Victor’s Treasure that week is not in the drawing. “Whichever girl” is always me.

            I was born Bethany Mariner, in a town by the sea, shockingly far from the Jail. I was captured and sold to the wasps long ago; I don’t remember exactly how long it’s been. Maybe three years. When you’re in here, you start to ignore the finer details, like the time passing. What does it matter? We will all die in here, someday. Yes, even me.

            I’m one of the lucky ones – lucky enough to be taken at the beginning of my twenty or so years of strength, the very cusp of maturity, when I was young enough to learn and old enough to fight. Well, not old enough to fight. Nobody is old enough to fight. But I was old enough to be strong and clever enough to take the ring almost two hundred times in a row.

            This time, though, I twist the ring on my finger, fear in my heart. Normally, I would not doubt my own ability. This time, though, it’s different.

            I wince as my ankle throbs painfully, a reminder of my fight with Sara. Sara knows her days are numbered, and her fight with me was a last, desperate effort to take the ring, protect herself. There’s little chance of that, as she lost. I managed to clinch a win, though I knew that fight would not be overlooked by the wasps. It was sloppy. When you’re in here, one of the first things you learn is how to twist an opponent’s ankle. I’m disgusted that I would let a newcomer like Sara pull that on me.

            Whether because of my injury or by coincidence, my next fight is against Gina.

            Gina is like me – tall, about my age, been here for some time, and strong. Impossibly strong. I know it’s wit I’ll have to beat her with.

            A wasp paces the hallway, approaches the door to my cell. I stand facing him, no longer having to suppress an urge to spit in his face. I gave up on that dream long ago. I feel a cold, deadly calm fill me, while my ankle burns.

            He’s tall but young, with thick brown hair and hard dark eyes. Like the rest of them, he wears a mirror on a leather cord around his neck.

            Of all the things I know about this place and the wasps, and I’ve never been able to understand the mirrors. Maybe they want us to see what we’ve become, the trash of humanity, empty shells of our former selves. How the life we once had ahead of us is long gone now.

            Despite being aware it’s exactly what he wants me to do, I take a moment to look at myself in the mirror. That moment turns into a few as I wonder if this is the last time I will ever see myself.

            I can’t remember the face that was there before, but I remember spending hours admiring her grace, her beauty. She was so beautiful. Where did she go?

            As always, I see Violet, not truly myself. The face I see now is Violet at her darkest hour – the pride on her face is shot through with pain, the blond of her hair dark with mud, the blue in her eyes tarnished by exhaustion. All of this scares me, but what terrifies me most in all this is the uncertainty in her eyes.

           “Bethany.”

           I ignore him.

           “Bethany.”

           I hate the way my name rolls off his tongue, sounds in his voice.

           “Bethany.”

           This time, I almost scoff. This one must think himself kinder than most. The other wasps call me Violet. Does this one really think I want him to acknowledge my person? I want to be nothing more than dust to him.

           “Bethany.”

           Finally I reply. “What?” The word is quick, snappish, harsh – barely a question.

           He looks relieved. He’s a strange one. “Bethany, it’s time for you to get cleaned up. Your fight with Regina is this afternoon.” He opens my door and walks away in the direction of the showers, apparently trusting me not to bolt. “Come.”