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“You will fight Arman. Five minutes. Ring three.” Georgio dips his head towards a section off to his right, where a fight occurs between a large, muscular man and a much smaller but very stocky guy with a buzz cut.

I head over to the man with a walkie-talkie standing by ring three and give him my name.

It isn’t even a proper ring. There is no rope. People form the barrier, with men and some women pushing the fighters back into the ring if they stray too far.

There are also no rules except one. No weapons besides what is attached to your body.

This works for me. I needed to take the recent events out on someone. Who better than a murderer in a ring where no rules apply?

I knew they were murderers because I was here. I was no different. I just wore a suit most days.

The fight between David and Goliath is over two minutes later. The stocky guy landed the perfect headbutt and crushed the larger man's nose, bringing him to his knees, before punching him repeatedly in the bleeding mess until the man passed out. Dead or unconscious. No one cared. He is dragged off the section and swallowed by the crowd.

“You’re up,” walkie-talkie tells me, pointing to the ring before rattling something off in Italian that I don’t understand.

The crowd parts to let me through, the stench of blood becomingstronger. It’s strangely comforting. I imagine it is Sienna's rapist's blood, the imagery sending a surge of fresh anger forward. Fine. This is why I am here—to get rid of some of it, to clear my mind.

I remove my hoodie and shirt, eliciting gasps from some observers as I throw the items to the side.

The crowd parts on the other side as a man my height, just more muscular, enters the makeshift ring.

“Start.” The command is given, indicating the beginning of my cathartic session. I fucking throw myself into it, the feel of my fist landing a punch against skin and muscle sending my adrenaline pumping.

There is no quarter given on either side. But Arman is no match against the pent-up rage in me finding its outlet. Four minutes later, the fight is over. Arman is alive but barely.

“Next.” Walkie-talkie squints his eyes at me, his next fighter not ready yet. The round was too short for his liking. He grunts before calling for someone on his walkie-talkie.

Minutes later, the next victim is sent into the ring. And so it begins. I wonder how many it will take before I can get the picture of my rainbow being hurt out of my mind. Not enough. I could tear through the whole world, and I fear it still would not be enough.

Chapter 14

Light

“Hello.” My reflection greets me as I test out my voice.

After four days, it is much better, with the hoarseness almost gone. I wish I could say the same for the marks around my neck, which have faded to light purple and yellow. The two colors are quite lovely on their own, but together, they are just a sick reminder.

At least they were healing. I would rather have a thousand bruises on my skin that could go away than the ones inside, which took so much longer. The doctor's words at the hospital ring true as I hold up the card she gave me with the details of the woman holding the victim's rape group. I was toying with the idea of joining. But I couldn’t make my mind up.

Perhaps Damon would go with me. I doubted he would, but there was no harm in asking. If he was around. I knew he was here while I was asleep because the pillow was indented and the bedsheets were crumpled, but the bed was always cold when my eyes opened.

Then, there were the blood droplets. Damon’s blood.

When I saw him briefly a day ago, the cut on his cheek had healed and was just a tiny scab, not going to leave another scar. But a fresh cut was just above his eye, slashing through his eyebrow. His knuckles were bruised, with the middle knuckle on his left hand split.

I was worried about him. I realized the other day that I had implied that I had blamed him. I denied it, but without conviction because, at that moment, I believed it.

As the days wore on, I understood my anger was misplaced. Damon didn’t force some psycho to rape me. And if he had been there, he would never have let it happen.

I know this. Because I know Damon would never intentionally hurt me. He just wouldn’t. I was as sure of that fact as I was that I breathed oxygen, even though I couldn’t see it.

The niggling feeling that his bloodied eyebrow and busted knuckles were somehow linked to me made my stomach turn. He was getting hurt. And if I were the cause, I wouldn’t forgive myself.

So here I was. For the first time in days, I was wearing adult clothes instead of the comfy pajamas I was self-comforting in—although it was just an old pair of jeans and a plain black T-shirt. Nonetheless, I put the card down on the counter, pulled my hair into a tight ponytail, and splashed water on my face, hoping I looked presentable.

Damon and I need to talk. There was anxiety forming with every minute that passed. It felt like I might explode if I didn’t see and talk to him right now. And I might lose him.

I can’t lose him. I can’t. I don’t want to. He was the first person to make me feel alive after James and the first person to really see me. Perhaps in my whole life. I wasn’t anyone else besides Sienna when I was with him.