Page 13 of Fractured Future
“I won the fight.”
“By the skin of your teeth.”
Flinching, I breathe through the lava collecting around my spine and ribs. “I gave them a good show. That’s the whole point of these stupid clubs.”
Walking me down a dimly-lit, underground corridor, thick with the stomach-turning scent of cooking drugs and spilled liquor, Carlos scoffs. It’s a derisive, unpleasant sound.
“Don’t pretend like that shit was all part of your plan.”
“Perhaps it was.”
“Mierda. I taught you better than that.”
Mr Gael’s trusted trainer is a cruel piece of shit with sky-high standards and a penchant for beating skill into you rather than teaching with patience or humility.
Illegal fights are only a small intersection of Antonio Gael’s business empire, spanning across borders to reach vast swathes of South America. My knowledge is limited, but he’s heavily involved in the skin trade too.
I’ve seen enough traumatised girls come and go on his grand, rural estate. Most vanish when they outlive their purpose. For years, I’ve held out hope that I’ll see her face.
Gracie.
The poor girl I left behind.
But sometimes, I hope I don’t see her. Not here. I hope she’s dead already and far from this depravity. The thought of her enduring six years of relentless torture is too much to bear.
“Clean yourself up and be ready to leave in ten minutes.” Carlos stops outside the changing rooms. “We’re needed in Ciudad Obregón by tomorrow.”
“Is he meeting us there?”
“Señor Gael’s schedule is none of your concern.”
His bushy, black caterpillars drawn together in a deep frown, Carlos waits for me to leave. I want to bite back, demand toknow what he’s going to tell the man who decides my fate, but I swallow the question.
“Yes, sir.”
Limping into the small room, I take in the old cardboard boxes that once held cheap tequila to be poured down the necks of the fight club’s regulars.
Rather than avoiding the mirror, I’ve taught myself to rip the Band-Aid off fast by assessing each fight’s damage in the immediate aftermath. No sense in avoiding my own reflection.
Lukewarm water drips into the dirty sink as I study the unfamiliar woman staring back at me through one working eye, the other blackened and nearly swollen shut.
I used to see a leggy, blonde bombshell when I looked in the mirror. Someone I liked. She was attractive. Athletic. Ambitious. But so incredibly naïve and foolish. I just didn’t know it at the time.
Now the muscular stranger staring back at me looks nothing like the person I used to be. Flaming-auburn hair has regrown from my roots over the past few years, leaving me with an odd inch of blonde at the very tips of my long locks.
Pulling out my tight bun, I finger brush the obnoxiously bright strands. I have the same vivid auburn hair as my older brother, inherited from our half-Irish mother, and it makes my porcelain skin gleam.
My narrow nose, the centrepiece of my oval-shaped face, now sits eternally crooked after years of fighting. It didn’t take long for my curved brows to grow back to their natural red, crowning my forever-changing eyes.
Some days, they’re akin to a restless sea, churning in shades of tranquil azure. Other times I see my mother looking back at me in the stormy-grey colour that invades to form a muddied ocean.
Russet streaks pour from my nose, mouth and a shallow cut that’s opened in my cheek. The blood obscures most of the bruising, but the purple marks will shine through soon enough.
Violent green and black storm clouds are already forming on my midsection, the relentless throbbing mirroring the beat of a war drum wreaking havoc on my spine. As the adrenaline fades, it’s harder to ignore.
Tipping my head down, I splash my face with water then scrub my cheeks as roughly as my bruises will allow. Pink swirls escape down the drain, removing a small fraction of the blood I’m doused in.
“You’re a savage creature, sweetheart.”
