In the Dark

The sand on my feet is so warm, the little pieces shift between my toes, and the kernels bathe my scarred feet in comfort. My cell is so cold when juxtaposed to the sand's heat.

I've heard there are beaches up above, and the sand runs all along the edge of distant lands. Someone once told me there's water next to the beaches too. They are vast and span thousands of miles. Hundreds of miles of water! I could believe the beaches but I'm still unsure about oceans. Even the name sounds too preposterous albeit slightly magical.

I open my eyes, and stop the motions of my feet. Relishing in small comforts is unnecessary I tell myself. It does not do to dream about things I can't see. It does not do to dream at all.

I snarl at the wolf opposite. His long teeth gnash against each other in response. Saliva slips down his mouth and bubbles along his lips to his gums. Dirt mixes with the spittle in the corners of his mouth and mattes his fur down. He's already slipped into a tar colored wolf, which has mangy hair like a stray and clumps of dirt hanging from the greasy ends. There are patches of long and short and shaved and growing hair dotting all over his skeletal body. His ribs are prominent and his bones thin, evidence he was starved long before our match.

He has a hungry gleam in his green eyes that speaks to the one in my own. It is one of survival. One that says he has done many things to stay alive and he will do anything to stay that way.

"Ready dirty dog?" My voice carries over the roar of the crowd; he responds with another gnash of fangs. The crowd waves money at the bookies in red. Beer sloshed over the sides of the barriers, and their shouts echo across the underground room.

I stalk forward to the wolf, ready to attack. I feel hungry.

The bell's ring reverberates over the arena. The din of the crowd is drowned out. My head pulses in tandem with the blood rushing through my ears. I wipe my slick palms on my dirty cargo pants, then clench my knuckles into white fists. I can feel my breathe become shorter. I'm panting and salivating. I want to hurt this mutt. I want to tear him apart. I want my control back.

This is how I'll get it.

I'm in the air before the wolf can blink. My much smaller form pounces atop his, and my claws kiss his blood for the first time. Flesh is not an easy thing to pierce but my claws were made for this. They slice through like a hot knife through butter. A howl rips from his throat, enriched with pain. The wolf shakes his hide left and right to try to shake me off.

My claws only sink deeper, but he moves his head back and to the side, allowing his teeth to clamp on the ankle of my leg. I stifle the yelp that threatens to rip from my throat, and he whips his head, throwing my body into a concrete barrier. I slam against the block of rock with torturous force; the bones in my body jar against the impact. The crowd roars in approval behind me. I jump to my feet and amble over, shaking the discomfort out of my body.

A rush of heat flares from my paws to snout. I crack my neck. I'm lost. It's not me anymore in the arena. My head goes silent. I can't feel anything, can't process anything except single intentions.

Hurt. Pain. Control. Control. Control.

The face will always give one's intentions away. My opponent's expressions are no different than any other of my prey. Even before he does, I know his next move. He darts forward to the left, and I meet his trick with one of my own. The dog intends to fake right at the last second, so I pretend to play into his trickery. At the last second I undercut his move by rolling to the left, and swiftly to my feet. Taking advantage of his surprise I pounce once more, and latch my teeth into his neck.

Tingles of pleasure spread through my spine. My throat thickens with blood. It's metallic and copper and utterly delicious. Taste buds on my tongue roll over the sweet substance.

I do not notice when the dog slumps beneath me, my entire senses too distracted with my indulgences. Slowly, I come back to myself. I see the lake of blood beneath me, and I sigh. I can see he's already dead.

The din breaks through my quiet ears. The crowd is wild, practically feral with pride over my kill, and I feel pride. Here I am free, uncaged, powerful, something of worth. I have power over myself, my life, and the power of the crowd.

My power is short lived.

Guards come with silver chains in their gloved hands to take me away. I am naked when I change back to my weak human form. Without my coat to protect me from the cold, goosebumps break out along my arms. They fasten the heavy cuffs to my wrists. The metal blisters my skin after nought a second. Pain feels good now for some reason.

No matter how many times a wolf is placed in silver shackles, they will never be used to it. its uncomfortable and itchy and makes you want to scream at the complete wrongness of it.

I get one last look at the spectators before leaving the ring and they have already moved on. Winners collect their money from the bookies, losers flag down the women serving beer to drown their sorrows, and I am headed back down.

Leaving the arena is always the worst part. I have to leave and go back to a cell. Back into the cold and dark. Our descent leads to a concrete archway on the west side of the ring. Rows of silver-barred cells line the sides of the tunnel like the shelves of a grocery aisle. At the end of the first row, the corridor curves left and then down, pulling further into the ground. My cell is at the bottom level, making escape so achingly difficult.

I enter my filthy cell, a cold toilet, a blanket on the floor, and now me. I fit in so well here. I belong here. The adrenaline I felt from the fight deflates from me like a popped balloon as I allow a guard to remove my restraints.

I can feel myself ghosting out of my body. I'm watching from far away.

I am not me when I walk to my ratty blanket in the corner. I float along, two steps behind my own body.

It is so easy to stay like this.

It is so easy to be a void.

It is so easy to succumb to the cold.

It is so easy because to feel, is so fucking hard.

It is not me when the person lays their head down on the floor, and closes their eyes to sleep.

No, I do not think I could bear it if I knew that person was me.

I tell myself I am someone else entirely.

I lie.

© 2017 by Souraslemons12. All rights reserved.