It took what felt like a lifetime, but at last the long hallway is cleared of the thick mud I’d drug in. It took extra long to do so, seeing that Fox had somehow carried in more dirt than his bodyweight. It didn’t help that by time I got to cleaning, the muck had frozen over into a rock solid paste, forcing me to use every muscle in my body to pry it off the gray cement floors.

All I want to do is slump in bed, sit around and do nothing but read and stare for hours. But alas, that is not the way things go around here. Instead of doing what my body is begging of me, I take the path down to the sparring gym, where the rest of the inmates will most definitely be training.

I’m running over two hours late and haven’t had time to dry off my wet clothes, which have started to chafe in all the wrong places. I’ll barely make it before we’re called for lunch. Mother save me. At least it isn’t the General overseeing this lesson. He wouldn’t hesitate to whip me unconscious before I even had the chance to explain.

Finally making it to the double doors, I halt my steady jog, my feet screaming at me for rest. The sounds of clashing metal and steel thumping wood are loud enough to escape the massive entryway before me, groans and yelps creating a symphony of pain. Grasping the handle, I thrust the doors open.

This time, not a single head turns to me. They’re all preoccupied with far more serious games. This is not just training. This is a constant test of survival of the fittest. You can’t mess up here. Not if you want to keep all of your limbs. Nobody takes it easy. Nobody hesitates to cut you to the bone. A quick glance at one of the bodies slumped against the wall, his neck twisted in an unnatural way, reminds me of exactly that.

“THORN,” the steely voice of Major Ford bellows from across the room. I whip my head around in time to catch him storming towards me from a bloodied boy moaning on one of the sparring mats. Ford's hands are absolutely drenched in the deep red blood that’s begun to slip down the concrete.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The Major falls somewhere between the General and the Colonel when it comes to how much I feel like shitting my pants around him. While the Major is an incredibly harsh man, and he loves his fair share of punishment, he isn’t nearly as brutal as the General. Where the General prefers breaking bones and tearing out chunks of flesh with demonic torture weapons, the Major finds enjoyment in turning you black and blue by his own fists. His very large fists for that matter. He’s an absolutely enormous man, but not from lack of exercise. He’s an absolute unit. His biceps alone are bigger than my head, his quads could crack open a skull with a slight squeeze.

A distant flash of lightning crashes out the window to my right, followed by booming thunder not long after as he marches to me and plants his feet less than six inches away, “You think you’re better than them do you? Showing up late and just waltzing in here like you get special treatment.” He grinds his pointer finger into my chest, attempting to sway me from my stance. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I was bringing Inmate Fox to the General’s office, sir. He fell unconscious during this morning's run, and I was sent to retrieve him by Colonel Kraus.”

“And I’m expected to just take your word for it, am I?” He glares in my face.

To my relief, a voice sounds from beside me, “It’s true, sir,” Thomas answers from where he had been sparring with Reed, both stopping momentarily, thank their souls, “He’d fallen back around the eight mile mark, the Colonel asked her to retrieve him.”

The Major doesn’t even look in their direction, he just keeps his demonic eyes planted on me, likely searching for an excuse to beat the shit out of me for insubordination. Not that he would need one. At times I’ve been smacked for simply breathing too loud during an exercise.

He looks at me for another moment before opening his large mouth again. Hot wretched air slams into me through his jagged yellow teeth as he bellows, “STEVENS!”

A particularly large oaf lifts his head from a sparring platform, his fist pausing mid air from what I’m sure would have been a rather brutal punch to the face.

“Pick up a sword. Thorn here needs some practice,” turning back to me, the Major smiles cruelly, “After all, you’ve already lost so much valuable training time. It’s only fair that you get your equal share of lessons, isn’t it, Thorn?”

I only nod in response, watching as the massive boy drops the frail kid he had been holding up by the collar, the kid crumpling to the ground in a pile of blood and tears. He’s got a good head on me, and has more muscles than I can count, but I have to admit, I’m rather excited to hand his ass to him. Dude’s looking way too smug about his recent triumph over the whimpering child who couldn’t be older than 15. Cheap shot. Too cheap in my opinion.

His size is the only intimidating thing about him, that and his blood coated hands. But I can tell that under the brutish skin, which is so dirty it could be toxic, is a man driven by narcissism and rage. Which is probably why the Colonel chose him, afterall, like calls to like. But what he doesn’t realize is that those types are always the easiest to bring down. Most are too preoccupied with retaining their ego to fully realize the plan clinking about in my mind.

“Well come on then,” I sigh, motioning to the sparring platform that’s recently been cleared after two boys began stabbing each other until one of them yielded, fresh blood splattered…well everywhere, really, “Let’s get this over with.”

He actually looks shocked before bursting into a fit of hoarse chortles, “You really think that’s a good idea? Look at you! You’re like an ant!” This begins a tidal wave of laughter that the other sheep surrounding him duplicate. You’d think they’d realize that everyone else is watching the scene unfold, eagerness twinkling in their eyes.

I look down at my soaked clothes and wipe away an imaginary fleck of dust from my shoulder, “It’s alright, I get it. There’s no shame in knowing your limitations.”

Their boisterous laughter gets cut short and I glance up to see the ogre’s face bright red, his nose flaring at the insult. For how dare I, an average height girl who compared to him looks like she’d be blown away by a slight breeze, consider myself a worthy opponent to him.

One of the boys in his herd speaks up, but it’s barely a whisper as he advises his leader, “I don’t know Alex…don’t you remember what she did to Jared last night? He’s still in the infirmary, I just think-”

Alex darts his head to the boy and snaps his teeth, “You think I can’t handle it?”

Oh this is really perfect. I won’t need to push him too far now, he’s already at the boiling point. Men are so damn predictable it’s almost not fair. Makes it more fun for me though.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Will you two princesses wrap it up over there? This isn’t a tea party.” I continue, a bored expression taking hold of my face, almost as bored as my tone. Behind Alex, I see Reed’s face split into a menacing smile as he and Thomas whisper about only the Mother knows what.

“Get. In. The ring.” Alex grinds out, his knuckles nearly white from how hard he’s digging his nails into his palms.

I don’t respond as I make my way to the platform, snatching a bent and rusted sword that had been laying on the floor before hoisting my body up the three foot elevation. I spin around as soon as my feet hit the cement, not allowing him a single moment of my back turned. He follows my path and hops up the distance, his sword clattering in front of him as he clearly tries his best to show me he has a physical advantage.

“When I’m done with you,” Alex growls, “You won’t even be able to use that whorish mouth of yours. Unless you want to apologize to me later, then maybe I’ll save it for you.”

First of all, ew. But his initial blow doesn’t make the impact he was looking for. Not even close. “Oh come now Princess, you can do better than that.” As if I haven’t been called a whore more times than I can count.

Reed whistles from the audience and Thomas follows suit, each of them shouldering the other as they bicker over who’s going to win whatever bet I’m sure they just placed. Princess snarls and lunges at me with a speed I have to give him credit for. There’s no playing around this time, no dancing between opponents as they decide their tactics. Only quick, sure decisions. But to my delight, it seems that the little princess is far more skilled with his hands than a sword. The clunky weapon thrashes about sporadically, the movements rough and hostile, a clear sign that the fighter is not skilled as the sword. It almost hurts my feelings that the Colonel thought that this buffoon would teach me a lesson.

His sword throttles down towards my arm, an alarmingly loud holler sounding from the oaf as I lift my own to block. The fluidity with which I did is entirely satisfying, like my body was dipped in an enchanted stream, only to emerge gleaming from head to toe. But the glory of the moment falters when I look at his distorted face. I can honestly see in his eyes how badly he wants to kill me. How badly his ego needs to be restored.

“COME ON THORN!” I hear Reed yell from the side, “I BET MY BEST KNIFE ON THIS!” As if there wasn’t already enough pressure, I can feel the eyes of the boys on me like a white hot branding iron as is.

Princess comes at me again, grunting furiously as he makes swipe after swipe, each one missing me by a mile. I have to admit, the reddening of his face has become a reward in itself. I slash my sword down once more and he comes barrelling towards me, his sword seeming forgotten in his hand as tries to grab my hair with his free fist. I would almost wager he’s never in his life fought with a sword.

As he steps within my range, I whip my free arm up and knock him in the nose with my elbow. He yelps and staggers backwards, wiping the blood that’s steadily pouring down his face with his tattered sleeve. He gawks at me when he pulls it back, finding it fully soaked, “You’re going to pay for that.” Princess snarls.

I roll my eyes as he attempts to circle me like a predator stalking its prey. Little does he know that he’s the mouse, and I’m just a cat playing with my food, “So you keep saying.” I sigh with a roll of my eyes, my carelessness thick enough that he bares his teeth.

“I’m going to kill you,” Alex seethes.

“You’re going to have to move to make that happen,” I smirk.

Alex again lunges at me, his movements fast and brutal. Sword swinging wildly, a smile pulls at my lips as my plan falls into place. He steps forward with an aggressive jab, the sword narrowly missing my ear, but as I had hoped for, he leaves me open to disarm him. With a movement that has become ingrained in my bones, princess soon finds his sword clattering to the ground, a look of disbelief playing on his grotesque features.

Without waiting for him to retrieve it, I kick it off the platform and raise my sword to his throat, staring him dead in the eye as Thomas bellows, “FUCK YES, THORN! EAT IT, REED!” He cackles like a madman.

“Do you yield?” I demand in a tone of frost coated steel.

He glares at me, wrath lacing his eyes, but he doesn’t yield. Why do they do this? They always make me break them before they give in. You’d think they would have realized by now that they’re going to lose either way. It just depends on how broken they want to be at the end of the day.

I don't hesitate to press the blade into the tender flesh of his neck, delicately enough that only a single drop of blood dribbles free of his sweaty skin. Alex glares at me with tar black eyes, but to my satisfaction, grunts his defeat. Reed’s answering groan widens the smile on my face as I drop my sword, letting it clatter to the ground as I turn my back on the furious inmate, “Better luck next time, Princess.” I mock over my shoulder.

No sooner than the sword meets contact with the ground does the clatter stop. Instinct flooding my veins as a furious roar sounds behind me, my fingers find the first knife in my harness. Pivoting just in time to escape the sluggish slash of the sword, the blade leaves my hands and finds its mark with ease. Straight into the red-faced boy's stomach.

He looks down at the blood which has begun to seep through his clothes, his eyes distant and glazed. My heart thumps sporadically. I killed him. I know I did. There’s no way he’ll survive that. I can’t do anything but watch as he crumbles to the ground, blood flooding out of his stomach as the boys around us gasp in horror. The boy who spoke earlier scurries forward, checking the bloodied man's pulse. His eyes flash as he looks up, his face stuck with terror.

“She killed him. Alex is dead.”

I hardly hear the words at all. The only thing I can hear is the constant call of murderer, murderer, murderer. My body goes numb, my mind racing. But I don’t let myself get emotional here. Not when they could see it. The weakness that lurks beneath the mask. But I can’t help the overwhelming wave of guilt that’s building bigger and bigger, threatening to drown me as I note the lack of movement from Alex’s corpse.

“Thank you,” Reed chides from my side. Nearby, Thomas is grumbling under his breath as he pulls out the small box of what I assume are cigs.

“He got what he deserved,” Carter shrugs from the crowd hovering over Alex-

No. Not Alex. Don’t think about his name. Not now. Not ever. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about the others who have died at your hands. Don’t think about the screaming of your sister that you could have saved. Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t. Think.

“He tried to attack her when he’d already yielded,” Thomas adds from Reed's side, “It was a coward's move.”

“It wasn’t his first. He killed that twig in the corner just to show the rest of us he didn’t mind doing it,” Reed scoffs.

But I barely hear them over the ringing in my ears. I turn from the crowd and begin to head for the small bathroom in the corner, winding my way through the faces of guys looking at me like I have talons and fangs and a face of nothing. Looking at me like I looked at that thing. With nothing more than pure terror.

Maybe that is in my mind, after all, most of us have been thoroughly conditioned that death is a common practice here, leaving us veterans numb to the stench of blood and decay. But the new guys are definitely looking at me like that. Like a monster from the depths of hell.

They’re not wrong. Ten years here has turned me into a husk of a person. I don’t even feel happiness anymore, at least not long lasting. Acceptance of who I am, where I am? Sure. But never joy. Or hope. I stopped all of that when I was hardly 12 years old.

I at last reach the bathroom door, the guilt of what I’ve done nearly sending me to my knees, and grasp the cold metal handle. I’ve barely begun wrenching it open when the thick iron severs from the hinges and tears off of the wall, tumbling to the floor with a loud echoing bang that makes everyone in the area jump.

Taking a deep breath, my face turning red with embarrassment, my head tips back so I can see the tiled ceiling above. I hate this place.