My heart is beating slow and steady, my mind ready for the fight. I don’t get nervous, I don’t show fear or hesitation. I get in the cage, and I take down my unlucky opponent. That’s what I do. Unfortunately, as I stand ringside, waiting for the officials to clear me, my one weakness shows.
I scan the crowd for Britt.
Our eyes lock and the crowd, the noise, the fight… all of it fades into nothingness. There is only her and me. Even though the monster is inside, begging to be set free, Britt meets my eyes without fear. As the official walks over to do his pat-down, Britt winks and just like my last fight, she mouths, “you got this,” before breaking eye contact.
And just like that, she’s buried her way back under my skin. No matter how big of an asshole I was, no matter how shitty I treated her, she still believes in me.
“All good. Fighters to the ring.”
I step up into the cage, my thoughts still confused and filled with Britt, images of her smiling, laughing, lying beneath me moaning in pleasure. Everything I want, but can’t have.
When the ref calls us to the center, I blink and clear my mind. Focus. The anniversary is tomorrow, and Killer needs to purge his demons.
We tap gloves, and I let the monster free.
Britt
Gabriel told me that Keller was fine after the fight and didn’t have any concerns. I took that information, and decided to sneak out of the arena before having to come face-to-face with Keller. Cowardly? Maybe, but not any more so than Keller and his inability to flat-out tell me he didn’t want to see me anymore. Besides, tomorrow is the anniversary, and I plan to go home, lock my doors, and hide in bed until Monday morning.
Hiding proves more difficult than I thought. When the cab drops me off after the fight, that damn envelope haunts me from its place on the kitchen table. Even buried under a pile of mail, I know it’s there and can feel the horror emanating from it.
I check the locks multiple times and finally, after three hours, I’m satisfied that no one can get in. A microwaved bowl of soup isn’t appetizing, but nothing is. I manage a few bites before rinsing the bowl and putting it in the dishwasher.
My phone rings over and over again, every fifteen minutes. There’s no point checking it—I know it’s my mother. If she had any clue how much worse she makes my anxiety, would she stop? I shake my head. No, she wouldn’t. It’s about her, not me. It’s never about me. Even a bullet to my head wasn’t about me. My mother managed to turn that around into a cause,
into a career, using her daughter the “survivor” to garner attention and sympathy.
After taking my meds, I climb into bed, pulling the covers up over my head. This is one of those times I wish I could have a drink. Of course, alcohol mixes with my seizure medication so it’s out of the question, but I would give anything for the numbness it brings.
The minutes tick by and in the early hours of the morning, I finally fall asleep.
The car squeals to a stop, tires smoking on the hot pavement.
“Britton, run!”
The girl’s voice is distorted, as if in slow motion. A hand grabs mine and my body is tugged, floating up a staircase.
“In here!”
The arms of another girl wrap around me and I close my eyes. Without vision, sound becomes magnified. Sobs. Tears. Screaming. Blood. It’s too much, so I open my eyes.
And find myself facing down the barrel of a gun.
I shoot up in bed, clutching my head and gasping for breath. My heart is beating so fast it hurts. Air becomes a precious commodity, so I concentrate on sucking it in, blowing out as slowly as I can. Dizziness swamps my head, black spots dancing across my vision. I gulp down breath after breath until the panic recedes. I raise a violently trembling hand to my face and wipe away tears.
The dream comes back to me, slamming into my chest like a freight train.
Oh god. My memory. It’s coming back. It’s going to destroy what’s left of me.
* * *
It took four hours for me to get out of a fetal position and get up, and that’s only because my bladder gave me no choice. I check my phone—seven missed calls. Six from my mom, one from Max.
Odd. I haven’t spoken to Max since he was fired. In fact, he really freaked me out the last time he was in my apartment. He was… off.
I check the time and sigh in relief. Three in the afternoon. The ceremony is over. Now I can move on with my life.
I snort. Yeah, some life. Horrific dreams, panic attacks, and a man who won’t give you the time of day.