Page 30 of Of Angels & Absolution

I close my eyes and say a silent prayer of gratitude that I can always count on him. You never know when people will turn on you.

“Thank you,” I say, letting myself relax. “I’ll be there. I won’t let you down.”

Friday night, I pull open my dresser and dig to the bottom of the drawer. Like a phone or its charger, clothes hidden in a special place would look suspicious.

I take out my one pair of jeans and pull them on. They’re medium blue, no name brand, no pocket stitching. Not too tight, not too loose. I pull a skirt over them so no one will think I look different than usual if I get caught. Then I pull on a white tee, layer on an old cardigan, and slide my feet into my clogs. I’drather wear tennis shoes, but I won’t leave my emergency phone here, even when it’s turned off. I slide a pair of flip-flops into my purse for backup, then head out.

The November night is dark and foggy, and I’m jumpy as I slip between shadows, making my way toward the edge of campus. I look over my shoulder every few steps, sure I’ll see that I’m being followed, but no one appears from the mist. At last, I step off campus and dart behind a tree, waiting for a car to pass. I told the rideshare driver to park around the corner, so I won’t be seen leaving at night. Now I jog to the car, climb in, and direct her to a store.

In the parking lot, I squirm out of my skirt and cardigan in back seat, replacing my clogs with the flipflops. Inside the store, I’m just a girl in jeans, a t-shirt, and flipflops, buying a cheap mask and ball cap. It doesn’t matter what they look like. I’ll toss them at the end of the night. I never wear the same ones twice. Back in my car, I pull my hair up, then pull on a wig cap, not wanting even a strand to escape and give me away. I tug the hat low over it, then pull on the mask and direct my driver to the warehouse over near the tampon factory.

There, I climb out under the orangey glow of the security lights and approach the tall, chain-link fence.

The gate is opened by the usual blond guy with tattoos to his chin, a missing finger, and eyes that guard as many secrets as mine.

“Hey, Dynamo,” I say, bobbing my chin at him.

“Mercy me,” he drawls.

“Can we look at the files again later?”

“Hope you’re ready to put on a show first,” he says. “The place is packed. Everyone thought you quit.”

“Gotta keep ‘em on their toes,” I say, flashing him a smile. Adrenaline is coursing through me, slow and steady.

Inside, I step into the back room where they let us dress and clean up injuries. I lock the door and quickly strip out of my clothes, knowing someone will bang on the door at any moment, wanting to use the room. No one else requires privacy, but I can’t risk my identity. I change as quickly as I can, keeping the mask and hat for my exit. With my face and hair covered, no one will be able to describe me further than height, approximate size, and maybe, if they look closely, eye color.

I pull on the spandex suit I keep for the occasion, rolling it over my bruised thighs and settling it into place over my chest before pulling on the hood. When I stand, I’m a different person. Like Superman emerging from his phone booth, I’ve transformed. I open the door for someone banging impatiently.

Then I wait with the other girls who trickle in to change and get ready. Some of them are smoking or drinking, but I just wait, the adrenaline pooling inside me until I feel almost sick when I hear Dynamo call my name. I punch my hand into my fist once, then jog out of the changing room. He’s right. The place is packed, so filled with smoke I can hardly see as I shove my way through the crowd, ignoring the whistles, jeers, and groping hands.

I hop down into the ring, the dirt floor stained with blood, the walls crumbling and giving off the smell of a dank basement. I take one moment to inhale the familiar, spine-tingling scent, letting its deliciousness ripple through me all the way to my toes. The Slaughterpen is the only place on earth where I can let out the other kind of urges that overtake me—the violent ones. They might be less shameful than the lustful ones, but only slightly. Girls are supposed to be demure and soft, not want to beat people to a bloody pulp.

But when the blonde giant they’ve paired me with drops into the pit, and the crowd standing around it chants for blood, it awakens a thirst whose quenching is far overdue.

The blonde grins at me to show off a missing tooth before spitting on the dirt and raising her fists. She’s wearing athletic shorts and a sports bra to show off abs that could rival any man’s. She’s broad as a truck and probably six feet tall. She looks like a professional athlete.

Perfect.

I bounce on my toes, dancing forward. The crowd is louder now, the hum of excitement and bloodlust washing over the place and sinking down into the pit, where it finds its target—me. I breathe it in, my muscles coiling as I take the first swing. It connects, and the crowd roars their approval.

I feel a smile stretch across my lips, though none of them can see it. Inside my costume, I’m as hidden as the superhero Manson suspected. It doesn’t matter, though. My performance is not my face. It’s my body. I suck in their excitement like a vampire drawing blood. But I’m not a parasite. This relationship is symbiotic. They want something, and I give it to them. Their frenzy fuels me, and I perform.

I don’t suck blood. I draw blood.

The blonde curses savagely when I land an uppercut to her jaw. She spits blood this time, then swings at me, barely glancing off my shoulder. I turn into the blow, grabbing her arm and dragging her forward with her own momentum, using it to send her stumbling into the wall. I spin and land a kick to the back of her knees, knocking her to the floor.

The crowd is screaming now. I grin wider, raising both arms and motioning for them to give me more. They do. I do a little lap around the pit, hyping them up. This is why they come to see me. Not just for the fight, but for the entertainment. They’re here for me, not just what I can do. That’s why I’m priceless. That’s why Dynamo will find a spot for me every time I come, even if he has to move someone else off the roster or double book me. He takes a cut, after all.

Everyone wins tonight.

Everyone except the spitting woman they pitted against me.

She lunges for me when my back is turned, but I can read the crowd well enough to know when she’s coming. I drop to my knees when she swings at the back of my head. She tries to pull up short, but she stumbles into me. I wrap my arms around her legs and yank them from under her. Her back hits the floor, her eyes widening with pain and shock.

I jump up and dance backwards, energy buzzing through my body like the sweetest drug. The crowd’s frenzy rises to a fever pitch when she comes up, snarling and cursing as she dives for me again. I duck aside, and they laugh and jeer at her as she tries to correct. I lead her around the ring, wearing her out as we exchange a few blows. She gets in one hit for every four I get. Dynamo says the price of admission for a fight is blood, but I almost never bleed. When I do, it’s hidden in my hood. But that’s okay. I draw enough blood from my opponents that no one complains.

The crowd is on their feet, yelling and stomping as I bring my opponent to her knees for the tenth time. I’m not the only one who will be nursing bruised knees tomorrow. Next time the guys tease me about it, I’ll hold my tongue like I always do, but I’ll remember this moment. They’ll never know what gives me the strength to go on, to endure, to keep quiet. They think I’m weak.

---