Lit

by C. B. Wiant

  “Don’t fucking judge my scale,” I say into the intercom mesh.

  Beep. “You live in different variations of loss…”

  I turn my back to the vintage high school intercom. I’m trying to think outside of the box.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Beep… “Look at yourself now.” Beep.

  My head tips down and white droplets rest on the cuticle beds of my toes. Fire no longer dances along my skin. Pale skin dotted with accumulations of white droplets gathers in crevices and dips of my body.

  My fire once again brews internal. I dress to return to the Arena with jerky motions.

  13

  Murder, Murder, Murder

  Both of our backs are resting against the same stone. Ruby and I have been standing side by side for a few minutes without speaking.

  Ruby breaks the silence, “Where have you been?”

  Spring leaves lay saturated after a heavy soak. We weren’t out here during the downpour. I’m only assuming it was a downpour because the ground gives like an old trampoline.

  “In a shipping container,” I say.

  Ruby tilts her head sideways. I don’t repeat or explain further, because that’s where I was.

  Ruby laughs and laughs and laughs. Her laugh is a chortle. Compared to a cachinnation or a cackle that is loud and convulsive. Her laugh is soft, a childlike blend between a snort and a chuckle.

  Her gleeful way has me smiling. “If you think this ends well, you haven’t been paying attention.”

  Her laughter abruptly stops.

  “I can’t believe you ate the fruit.” Ruby takes an aggressive step towards me. I don’t flinch, move or stutter step.

  “What the fuck do you mean?” I ask her pores since she’s that close.

  “Greek mythology,” she says.

  I nod as if I understand, but I have no idea how Greek mythology applies to fruit. I walk away from her and the stones. Why haven’t I been to the woods? My feet squish and squash. I don’t need Ruby’s archaic-Arena-gladiator-riddles. The Greeks were never gladiators; they considered gladiators barbarians. The gladiators were Roman. I walk towards the forest entrenched in thoughts of violent confrontations, chariots, and condemned criminals in the Colosseum.

  The closer I get to the woods, the more like quicksand the ground becomes. Each step sinks, swallows, and grips itself to the wet leaves. When I lift my foot, my thighs exert like I’m performing knee-highs. Steps, steps, steps and more steps on a Stairmaster. My trajectory is only a point, (x, y).

  Breathing heavily, I backtrack to the megalithic stone circle.

  “WHAT THE FUCK?” I scream at the clear spring sky.

  A stampede of boots thunders and vibrates in the woods.

  “Murder, just murder,” Ruby says.

  “What?”

  “MURDER! MURDER! MURDER!” Ruby’s battle cry rings between the stones. Her electricity amplifies. The leaves around her swirl and drift around us.

  “Fuck it,” I say. We’re in a self-constructed tornado of energy.

  “FUCK THIS!” Curdles through my throat and I unleash myself alongside Ruby. I push my hands out as if I’m Tony Stark using the repulsor blast. Fire flares out of my palms.

  Ruby and I murder and reign havoc in an uproar.

  Ruby whips electrical arcs. She manically dances using her electrical arc-like ribbon.

  I sling fireballs like they’re cinnamon-flavored whiskey shots in Canada.

  The Beasts never stood a chance. They hardly stood at all.

  Cheers.

  Bodies steam like microwaved leftovers. The Beast’s bodies don’t look like the advertised packaging—typical for prepackaged frozen dinners.

  There wasn’t much of a fight. Ruby and I indiscriminately slaughtered everyone. If the trees were flammable, we would have razed the forest.

  The smile on my face is ludicrous. A cheesy grin of brutality. I feel the need to drop my hand. We raged, and there’s no glorifying weapon to drop. We are the weapon.

  I turn and see Ruby beside me, already gazing my way.

  Her smile is as bright as mine. Her look is knowing. Our brutal rampage made her proud.

  We turn and walk towards the hobbit door together. I’d prefer it if we held hands, but I don’t think Ruby is into me like that. I lightly bump her shoulder with mine. She sticks her foot out and trips me. I fall in tears of joy from laughter. Ruby snickers.

  Neither of us acknowledges the lack of light from the hobbit door window. Still in the after battle glow, it isn’t until Ruby attempts to turn the handle that we realize the hobbit door is locked.

  “Guardian! Open the fucking door!” Ruby shouts and slams her mighty fists against the hobbit glass window. I’m afraid her fists will break through. Yet I don’t stop her because I’m curious what she would do with the broken glass. The placement of the window is too high. Her arm would fit through but would not reach to the knob.

  “God Damn Fucking Asshole.” She launches her feet on the door and wrenches at the doorknob like a deranged monkey.

  The door opens slightly and Guardian’s large head slips through, “Will ya’ get off the door.” He states, no question mark implied.

  Ruby jumps off the door with words brimming to erupt off her lips. They stop there because more words come. More voices join ours. Reed, Liam, Bud, Jasmine, Willow, Bethann, and Dahlia step out into the Arena. They move as a unified group to the megalithic stone circle and wait like a team.

  The door closes. The light through the hobbit door remains off. Ruby folds herself up against the door. Periodically, she taps her head against the door like a metronome. Guardian doesn’t answer her bidding.

  14

  Living Breathing Opponent

  “Where are they? The Beasts normally don’t take this long.” Reed’s paces back and forth by the sixth stone. The others congregate inside the stone circle. Except for Ruby, Allan and myself. Ruby remains by the hobbit door, tap-tapping for admittance with her noggin. Allan walked off a while ago. His anxiety about the impending Beasts had his energy buzzing. Unfortunately, Allan on extended alert causes brain zaps. Dahlia complained of feeling car sick. Bethann felt seasick. Nobody just felt nauseous. Everyone was feeling a parallel feeling. Maybe because we all had room to elucidate—we wanted to express nausea as being stuck in a car for ages, or praying for land, or being on that one rollercoaster.

  “Maybe they won’t come?” Bethann pipes up. Willow shoots daggers at her but says nothing. A sharp gust of wind slaps Bethann’s hair in her face.

  “We wouldn’t be here otherwise,” I say.

  “How the fuck would you know? You’re NEVER here.” Bud states while wrapping his arm protectively around Bethann. Jasmine cringes at Bud’s tone with me. She weaves through the group offering water from her clasped hands. She stops in front of me. Her hands and lips are cracked from dehydration.

  “Drink,” Jasmine urges at her own expense. Up close, the scaling along her hairline is clear.

  “No, thank you.”

  Jasmine hesitates. She’s a caregiver. If I were Willow, Dahlia, or Bethann she’d insist. Resistance is commonplace, she’s used to fulfilling the role of providing encouragement and support without compensation or acknowledgment.

  “Why else would we be here then?” I snark to Bethann. I make sure my gaze is away from Jasmine, the woman is a Saint.

  Dahlia rebukes, “Why are we here in general?” She looks around for a witness.

  “Because we killed someone,” Reed states matter of fact. And we all killed—not necessarily upon verbal orders but by genetic manipulation and triggering.

  “Let’s not fight. We work better as a unit,” Jasmine says walking back into the megalithic stone circle after visiting Ruby. Ruby also declined hydration, which allowed Jasmine a reprieve to accept a drink for herself. A true recycling of resources that provides more mental nourishment than physical.

  “Even if one member isn’t a part of our unit,” Dahlia snar
ls. She kicks a stone and inadvertently digs a nine-inch hole.

  “Don’t worry about her. She’ll be gone soon enough.” Bud interjects before Dahlia can stand up tall on her soapbox.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I inquire. No one responds. I repeat myself at a higher volume. “What. Is. That. Supposed. To. Mean?”

  “We’re not deaf,” Dahlia mumbles.

  “Don’t talk to her,” Bud says condemningly. Reed jogs off toward Allan and the forest. Jasmine does another circuit of bearing water. It’s apparent she doesn’t know what to do with herself if she is not being used in an act of service. The tension and lack of cohesion amongst us troubles her.

  Willow pets the birds on her tattoo. “What’s wrong with talking to her?” The birds are flying off a feather into her elbow. Depending on the perspective, it’s not much for freedom.

  “She’s not one of us,” Dahlia replies talking about me as if I’m not in the Arena with them.

  “I am too.” Although I’m not sure why I want inclusion in their group. I am a part of whatever is happening. And I bet my life I killed more than some of these individuals. Especially meek Willow.

  We all braved danger. But does that make us a unit? Did I not brave an adequate amount of peril for acceptance?

  It drizzles. Not quite rain. More like the sky is pissing. Our hair frizzes. Our morale is dangerously low. So low in fact that my comments have Dahlia raging, “You weren’t here when Wallace died.”

  My eyes bulge out of my head. “Neither was Ruby.”

  Ruby stops her metronome of head tapping, “Hey now, don’t bring me into this. Dog boy killed Wallace. What’s the dog boy’s name?”

  “Shiloh, his name is Shiloh,” Dahlia says forcefully like she’s carving his tomb with the pressure of her words.

  “Was, his name was Shiloh.” Ruby clarifies.

  Dahlia kicks deep into another hole. She’s scattering holes like a golfer who hits the ground before the golf ball. She’s behind the ball and hitting it fat. “You’re a bitch.”

  I can’t differentiate if she’s referring to me or Ruby.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ruby whispers and continues her metronome.

  “We’ve fought without you. We’ve become a unit—whether you’ve been leaving us by choice or not—nothing changes the fact that you’ve been missing in action.” Jasmine proclaims to re-educate me as if we volunteered for this process.

  “Like I said, we don’t need YOU.” Dahlia asserts and turns her back on me. They all do. Except for Ruby, who is behind us all at the hobbit door.

  I recycle Onyx’s phrase. “If you think this ends well, you haven’t been paying attention.”

  Ruby’s head tapping stops.

  “What do you mean?” Willow asks, her right forearm is red from anxiously scratching her tattoo.

  Exasperated, Dahlia throws her head back and shouts, “Don’t listen to her! Don’t engage!”

  “What do you think is going to fucking happen to us Doll?” I use a nickname I hope irritates.

  “We fight.” Dahlia, again, looks for a witness. Jasmine and Bud nod in the attestation. She smiles, finally vindicated.

  My hands pour open from my sides. “For what? For how long?” A smattering of rain hits my palms. There’s no weight to my scale. There are no options.

  “We fight until,” Jasmine says, ever the mediator.

  Why am I defending myself or acting like I lost these individuals as friends? I have no status. I can’t lose a crown I never wore.

  Jasmine corrals Dahlia back to Bethann and Bud in the center of the standing stones. Willow waifs behind. I doubt she’s even killed.

  Yet isn’t that how it is in a real war? Most are posturing or providing aid and resources. I scratch my head knowing I’m full of conspiracy theories and low on shame. This isn’t war. This is the Arena.

  I close my eyes and meditate for a minute trying to percolate my emotions. When my eyes open, I blast fire out of my right palm towards the standing stone behind Dahlia’s head. I wasn’t aiming for her face, simply posturing. Willow shrieks and cowers behind the megalithic stone. Jasmine throws her hands up as if she’s under arrest. Water splashes out. Bud and Bethann don’t move because they didn’t witness, they only felt the heat. Dahlia gets down on bended knee and starts shoveling dirt with her hands. The megalithic stone didn’t crumble. I scorched a volleyball-sized circle.

  “Dahlia, what are you doing?” Bud asks cryptically

  Dirt piles. “I’m digging her grave.”

  I turn to Ruby, who shrugs. Dahlia has exceptional speed when she puts her mind to a task. A six-foot-deep hole is dug close to the third stone within minutes. Sweat trickles down Dahlia’s neck. I like that I’ve exhausted her.

  “Don’t be rash,” Jasmine instructs stepping to the edge of the grave. Water unconsciously falls off Jasmine’s fingertips and fills the fresh grave with a muddy slurry. Dahlia is still within the depths of the grave. Brown water soaks and weighs her down.

  Dahlia sloshes to the side of the grave. “She’s a liability.” She attempts to scramble out of the grave on her own. Her walls crumble around her in a mudslide.

  “Like dog boy?” I ask.

  Dahlia grabs hold of Jasmine’s slippery hand and launches out of the grave. She catapults out and charges me. I embrace her in a flame-filled hug. I hold her for a socially accepted interval of time before I let her go. Her body drops. I wonder why she didn’t turn to ash. Dahlia has third-degree burns where my body touched hers. She’ll require at least one surgical intervention to survive..

  “What have you done?!” Jasmine shrieks.

  “You killed Dahlia!” Bethann screeches. Her volume is too much shriek. Bud’s ears bleed. Reed and Allan race back as if the high pitch noise erupting from Bethann was an alarm. Bud slams his blood-stained hand over her gaping mouth.

  Silence. Only potential blood-borne diseases slip into the cracks of Bethann’s chapped lips.

  An assessment period ensues.

  Willow whips up a breeze. Her hair dances around her in a flurry. Jasmine’s fingertips are still unloading water into the grave.

  Ruby rustles up behind me and whispers in my ear, “Do it.”

  And so I do. Because Ruby and I apparently eat the same fruit. Because what does it matter? Who are these individuals, and why would I share any kinship with them? What is the difference between the Arena and wars? It’s one stranger killing another stranger. If they name the stranger a Beast or by a more humanizing name like John. None of them have done anything against me to deserve the quick annihilation I gave them all.

  What I do know, is all wars make murderers out of good people. The Arena made me this way, and I thrive under the conditions. Killing a living, breathing opponent instead of a target is no different to me now.

  I am most effective close range with a jet of fire. I am a flamethrower. I am the incendiary device that murdered Dahlia, Willow, Allan, Jasmine, Reed, and Bud.

  Willow’s rampant wind incites a wildfire. The forest canopy is a rush of vibrant orange and red. Smoke plumes in enormous clouds. The trees are like match sticks that don’t burn down. The trunks remain structurally intact, but charred.

  Bud couldn’t generate wind in time. Bethann’s screams held his hand hostage. Allan didn’t have time to clap electricity. Jasmine’s water dried up. Reed couldn’t inhale a big enough breath to produce a loud enough whistle to incapacitate me.

  I scorched the megalithic stones black.

  The hobbit door swings open. Guardian pants and struggles to breathe, “Get in here.”

  15

  Daddy's Girl

  “Sit down,” Onyx exclaims. I walk hesitantly to the empty metal chair in the shipping container. Another gray item. Mist no longer falls. The ground is dry and echoes with each of our combined steps.

  I sit.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Errrrrrr. Click. The door locks and I’m sitting alone in the gray
holding cell.

  Until the door opens again, I don’t think I breathe.

  My feet tap, tap-tap, tap, taptap-taptaptap.

  Errrrrrr. A large body falls into the shipping container. A bag covers the man’s head. Their hands are zip-tied together. The man falls with a heavy thud. Their stomach jiggles.

  Onyx’s black boot kicks the man fully into the shipping container. The man’s excess weight ripples in motion.

  Errrrrrr. Click.

  The door shuts and I’m sitting with a kidnapped man dressed only in briefs. Neither of us moves. I wonder if he knows I’m in the container with him.

  Thump. Someone leans something against the shipping container wall. I assume Onyx.

  I walk over to the wall. Thump. The wall vibrates.

  Thump. I feel the reverberation again before I return to my gray chair.

  Thump.

  Errrrrrr.

  Onyx heaves four metal lined Plexiglas rectangles into the shipping container. There is a hole cut out in the middle of one rectangle-wall.

  The kidnapped man doesn’t move. I continue to silently tap, tap-tap-taptaptap-tap-tap my slippers on the cold flooring.

  Onyx bolts and assembles the rectangles into a 7ft x 5ft open-top box.

  Once satisfied with this construction, he turns and leaves the man and me alone again. He leaves the shipping container open. And after a few minutes Onyx returns with a large hose that he secures to the hole of the rectangle-wall. He then unceremoniously throws the man in the box, cuts the zip-tie, and seals the box closed with a few loud drill noises.

  The man regains consciousness. His body convulses with a full-bodied sneeze. His arms curl around his face. Knees bend inwards. The skid marks on his underwear stretch tight across his ass. A dark mole with tiny hairs sprout out from between his shoulder blades. It’s irregular in shape, he may very well have melanoma. The man should at least get it examined.