Wings

39. Alexa

Ruthlessness is a beautiful thing. It gets you places faster than plane old ambition.

It worked better than admitting to myself that I was actually losing my mind. I guess that happens after seventeen straight years of heartbreak after heartbreak.

Rapist daddy, immigrant slut mommy, Jessica, and then Alexander.

It all turned my heart to ice and my fists to iron.

That's why I didn't really feel bad about beating the shit out of a scrawny man with fluffy blue wings.

I walked to the Whyte Serpant, and stepped into the muggy room, full of rum and whiskey and strippers. It smelled like blood and sweat and enough alcohol to make me forget Alexander's damn perfect smile.

Some girl blew smoke in my face. I took her cigarette, took a long drag, and took the liberty of pressing the burning end into her wrist. The people parted for me after that.

Jason met with me to try to explain some semblance of rules, but I was far too gone to hear what he said. I just cleaned my brass knuckles and waited for him to open the door to the pit.

I'd seen enough fight clubs to know this place was high end. Their pit was cement, pressed down like a basin in the center of the room. The only entrance -- and exit -- was a set of stairs, which Jason held the key to.

My opponent had apparently already fought that night. His hair was messy and blonde, blood soaking through the color. Dark emeralds glowed from beneath his bangs. He flexed his wings, clearly mocking my little black ones.

I probably beat him senseless. That's what I assume. Once I was free of adrenaline's blackout, the scrawny guy was knocked out on the floor and the room was silent before a barrage of yelling from angry gamblers.

I shook the blood off my fists.

I recognized the soothing sadness of the feathers falling off my back.