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The first fighter came through the doorway and chose me.
Now, I was heading toward his room to consummate the activity he’d claimed me for.
I kept my eyes down and surveyed the floor as if I might find the solution there.
But there was no solution to my problem.
Except maybe a bullet in the head.
At least then all my problems would be well and truly over.
“Is something wrong?” Trayem said softly.
I almost missed a step, surprised at his kindness.
We marched ahead of the guards, who maintained a healthy distance behind us, just far enough for them not to hear me so long as I lowered my voice.
“Nothing,” I squeaked.
I cleared my throat and tried again.
“I mean, it’s a surprise to see the prison this way,” I said, hedging.
There was a genuine look of concern in his eye. Any other time, I would have been touched.
And yes, it might have affected me in other ways too.
But not right now. Not when I feared for what might happen after the sun rose and I had to leave his cell.
With no birth control at my disposal.
A thought occurred to me then.
He wasn’t like the other prisoners. He was kind, considerate, and not many would have rescued me the way he had during the riot. Most would have joined in and never given me a second thought afterward.
Maybe if I told him about the situation, he would understand…
What was I thinking?
He might be kinder than the others but he was still one of them.
He was a victor and expected to be rewarded for his successes in the fighting pit.
No. If I was going to get out of this, I would have to use that thing between my ears—and I wasn’t talking about my neck.
I was a prize. I had been for five years. This wasn’t the first time I had to get out of unsavory situations.
I succeeded then and I would succeed now.
With a new sense of confidence, I raised my chin and followed him the rest of the way to his cell.
It seemed a lot further today than it did last night. I suppose it always did when your life was on the line. Time distorted, bent, and morphed depending on your state of mind.
And last night, I was beside myself.
The fighters bent over their buckets and mops, scraping tools and paintbrushes. They scowled at us as we passed.
In all fairness, we weren’t the ones responsible for the damage, so why should we be the ones to clean it up?
