(no subject)
"Get 'im! Bleed the fucker!"
Those are the last words I can make out. I can't tell what most of the crowd is yelling. All the noise rolls together into a single, deafening roar. The lights are hot, as ever, but the knife feels cold and heavy and reassuring in my hand. My opponent is a big man, but that doesn't mean much. We circle, occasionally darting forward to slice at the air, make sure the other knows we haven't gotten distracted. It's almost ceremonial. He smiles, revealing rotting teeth, says something that I can't hear. Suddenly, I can't see, the lights shining off his blade directly into my eyes. It is only my instincts that keep me from flinching, leaving me with just enough time to parry his lunge. The tip of his blade scores my belly, leaving a ribbon of blood behind it, but he doesn't stop. His left hand grabs my wrist, wrenching my knife hand aside so he can bear me down onto the ground. Sloppy, I tell myself, to let him get so close. I grab his arm as we fall, trying to hold him away, but all of a sudden his size does make a difference. His knife inches closer to my neck, while my hand remains helplessly pinned. My knee drives into his groin reflexively, twice. He winces, then flashes his fetid grin once more. A eunuch.
It's over, I realize. He is stronger than I am, and I have no leverage to get him off me. He knows this, leans in to gloat where I can hear him. "Gotcha now, you little bitch," he growls. His breath smells like a festering wound. I see an opening. As he comes close, I relax my neck, then snap my head forward too fast for him to pull back. I cannot hear the sound of his nose breaking, but I feel it give way. He rears back, clutching at his face, forgetting me for a moment. My hand is free. I continue my upward motion, swinging my knife in a fast arc toward his throat. His reflexes are good, almost managing to deflect the cut. Not quick enough. The blade rips one side of his neck open, blood spurting suddenly over my face. I manage to wriggle out from under him, plant one foot in his stomach and kick him off me. He attempts to stand, but he is losing a great deal of blood; he only gets halfway before collapsing. His blood soaks in, caking the sand beneath him. I continue to watch until his breath stops. Only when I am certain do I turn to the crowd and raise my hands in victory.
Simo is pleased that night. He tells me I have made him a good deal of money. I am given meat with my meal. He does not even beat me.
Those are the last words I can make out. I can't tell what most of the crowd is yelling. All the noise rolls together into a single, deafening roar. The lights are hot, as ever, but the knife feels cold and heavy and reassuring in my hand. My opponent is a big man, but that doesn't mean much. We circle, occasionally darting forward to slice at the air, make sure the other knows we haven't gotten distracted. It's almost ceremonial. He smiles, revealing rotting teeth, says something that I can't hear. Suddenly, I can't see, the lights shining off his blade directly into my eyes. It is only my instincts that keep me from flinching, leaving me with just enough time to parry his lunge. The tip of his blade scores my belly, leaving a ribbon of blood behind it, but he doesn't stop. His left hand grabs my wrist, wrenching my knife hand aside so he can bear me down onto the ground. Sloppy, I tell myself, to let him get so close. I grab his arm as we fall, trying to hold him away, but all of a sudden his size does make a difference. His knife inches closer to my neck, while my hand remains helplessly pinned. My knee drives into his groin reflexively, twice. He winces, then flashes his fetid grin once more. A eunuch.
It's over, I realize. He is stronger than I am, and I have no leverage to get him off me. He knows this, leans in to gloat where I can hear him. "Gotcha now, you little bitch," he growls. His breath smells like a festering wound. I see an opening. As he comes close, I relax my neck, then snap my head forward too fast for him to pull back. I cannot hear the sound of his nose breaking, but I feel it give way. He rears back, clutching at his face, forgetting me for a moment. My hand is free. I continue my upward motion, swinging my knife in a fast arc toward his throat. His reflexes are good, almost managing to deflect the cut. Not quick enough. The blade rips one side of his neck open, blood spurting suddenly over my face. I manage to wriggle out from under him, plant one foot in his stomach and kick him off me. He attempts to stand, but he is losing a great deal of blood; he only gets halfway before collapsing. His blood soaks in, caking the sand beneath him. I continue to watch until his breath stops. Only when I am certain do I turn to the crowd and raise my hands in victory.
Simo is pleased that night. He tells me I have made him a good deal of money. I am given meat with my meal. He does not even beat me.