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“Apparently that’s where you’re from, they say you’re the only person to make it out alive.

We need a guide,” he glances at his friends before continuing “we need to find...” I hold my hand up and down the rest of the bottle.

I watch his face as I do it and nearly sputter when it goes from annoyance to amusement.

His lips quirk in a sexy as hell way and my eyes are drawn to their plumpness.

I flick my eyes back to his to see they’ve heated with knowing, time to leave.

“Let me stop you there, buttercup. I don’t give a shit why you want to go into the waste,” I bang the bottle down on the table and stand shrugging on my jacket as I go “and your two minutes are up.” Without another word, I walk off into the maze that is this city.

My instincts are one of the only things that has kept me alive this long and right now they are screaming at me that they’re bad news.

Worse yet is the fact that they didn’t fall for my games.

One look in the eyes of the man who first approached me and I know he would fight and play as hard as I do.

He’s a man who knows what he wants and does whatever it takes to get it. It doesn't bode well for me.

I make my way to the edge of The Rim, people move and make a path for me as I walk, but I keep my eyes on my target.

High up on the edge sits an old hotel, the shit hole I call home.

Probably a posh retreat in its day, now the walls are cracked and stained and most of the floor is destroyed.

The hotel itself is leaning, the outer walls scorched from the sun.

The front door hangs off at an angle making me smile, it’s perfect.

I make my way through the lobby and the bodies that are sprawled everywhere.

There’s a guy fucking in the corner, his grunts loud in the reception.

Two scavs are playing cards until one of them flips the makeshift table they sit at and flings himself at the other man.

Home sweet home. Ignoring it all I make my way to the desk and ring the bell an annoying number of times.

“I’m coming, hold your tits.” The old weary voice rings out spreading a genuine smile to my face. The old hunched over lady shuffles through the door and behind the desk with a fierce glare at me. No one knows how old she is, or how she came to The Rim. No one dares ask, not even me.

“Hi , Nan.” She flicks her eyes up and purses her wrinkled lips.

“Whatcha want, kid?” She gripes. I lean on my forearms on the dust covered desk.

“Missed you too, you old crone. I need a room.” With one last glare, she turns around. She mutters as she looks for the keys. A body slams into the desk next to me and I turn slightly to keep them in my eyesight.

His eye is ballooning shut and blood runs in rivulets down his face, he slumps against the desk like he just got knocked here. Following his eye line, I see a big bastard coming for him. This should be fun, I kick my legs and lean further on the desk waiting for the show.

A shot rings out and a ceiling tile comes falling down. I turn to Nan frowning, she’s holding her gun that she keeps under the desk. The old crone always spoils the fun.

“No fighting or you can get the fuck out!” She yells, her voice no longer weak but full of steel, the weak old lady disappearing in an instant to reveal the true Nan. The two men nod and head back to their beds for the night.

“Aww, why you gotta ruin the fun?” I wink at her as she slides her gun away with a smooth precision born from years of using it. She ignores me and throws me a key, I catch it in mid-air.

“The usual.” She shuffles off before I can reply.

“Love you too. ”

She flips me the bird over her shoulder and I chuckle. Grabbing my bag from the floor , I make my way down the corridor to the left.

Sauntering to my room which is the only door left at the bottom of the corridor, right next to the emergency exit.

Using the old-fashioned key , I unlock the door but it bloody sticks.

I barge it open and then slam it shut behind me marvelling in the peace and quiet.

I throw my bag down on the dirty bed and grab the broken chair from the unused desk and jam it under the door handle.

It’ll give me the time to wake up and react in case anyone tries to come in.

I look around and let the tension finally drain from my shoulders.

All my sarcasm and bravado drops away leaving the damaged woman in their place.

Looking around at what I’m pretty sure is the best room in the whole hotel but still, the walls are peeling and a yellow colour.

The carpet is dirty and covered in stains you’re best not to ask about.

The bed is just a metal box with a mattress on it, beats sleeping out in the open though.

The four walls and roof are a godsend, protecting me from the elements and wandering hands that I would have to cut off.

Plus, I can never really sleep when there isn’t a locked door between me and the rest of the world.

I sniff myself and instantly wrinkle my nose, trekking through the waste all day doesn’t have a good effect on anyone.

I eye the bed, so ready to sleep, but if I don’t wash first the sand and sweat will just stick to me and be a bitch to get off.

Turning to the bathroom, I start to strip my weapons as I walk.

The door to the en-suite isn’t there anymore and the tiled floor is half torn up.

The bath and toilet are covered in grime and the sink is partially clean, only from use.

The mirror has a huge crack running down its centre from the last time I looked in it, I keep my eyes averted from it not wanting to see myself.

I flick on the light, the yellow bulb flaring to life with a buzz. I throw my jacket off and my top too, so I just stand in my bra that has seen better days. Is that a blood stain on it? With a frown, I fill the sink and plug it laying my knives down on the counter within easy reaching distance.

Cupping the water I throw it on my face and then get to work removing the grit and dirt.

I wash my arms and face first before moving on to the rest of my body.

I have to scrub at my breasts and flat stomach before draining the now dirty water.

Looking down at my now red skin I frown, this world would be so much easier if my boobs weren’t as big and obvious.

It makes me stand out from the men, some slaves used to be able to bind theirs and with a haircut, it disguised them, but not me.

I shake my head from my morbid thoughts and fill the sink again.

I have to shimmy out of my jeans, the sweat making them stick to me in a way that makes me cringe.

I quickly wash my legs and then drain the water again.

Next, I wash my jeans and then throw them over the bath to dry.

Turning to leave, I accidentally catch a look at myself in the mirror.

Bruises mar my tanned skin from recent trysts in the waste.

My scars are easily visible with my back being the worst, it is covered in crisscrossing long ones pointing up to my slave mark, which stands out at the bottom of my neck.

A thick black circle with the Berserker symbol stamped in the middle, which looks like two diamonds connected with a sword piercing through the middle, it was the first tattoo I ever had.

I know I could get it altered. Hell, if I wanted rid of it so bad, I could just burn it off, but to me, it’s a reminder.

Of where I came from and the struggles I’ve faced.

My eyes fall to the lines down my spine, each one represents a person I killed.

It’s a tradition for a fighter to carve their kills into their skin, I struggled and begged for them not to.

Why would I want a permanent mark of the blood on my hands?

But I grew to see them differently and now one look reminds me that no matter how broken you are– as long as you’re still breathing you can live to fight another day.

Roses surround the harsh marks, a memoriam to the lives lost, there are so many that they run up my shoulder and down my arm bracketing my champion brand.

Which stands proudly on my shoulder, a mark I happily accepted.

After all, it represents my freedom, my fingers run softly over the black brand.

The design is beautiful, two swords crossed in a circle of leaves with my number of fights in Roman numerals.

As I pull my fingers away, my nail catches on a raised scar, I freeze and fight away the memory it triggers.

Chest heaving, my eyes lock on my orbs in the mirror, their depths holding secrets that should never see the light of day.

I watch the ghosts and pain reflected there, the raw emotion sucking me into my own head.

You think you can live without me? You think I will ever let you go? You’re nothing, you're worse than nothing! You’re a broken toy that no one will ever want and I’ll make sure of it.

I push the memory away with a cry and lean my head against the cracked glass.

All my hard earned walls crumble around me leaving me the broken creature he named me.

No, not broken. Gritting my teeth I painstakingly rebuild them, the cracks on its decayed surface, plain as day but it holds.

I shove everything behind the flimsy structure, the memories, the pain, even the love.

When I’m more myself, I straighten and meet my eyes once again, this time the determination and anger which keeps me going shines brightly back at me.

They drop to the tattoos once again before I drag them away to drink in the sight of myself.

My long brown hair hangs in a curly mess down to my curvy hips, the ends of it lightening to almost blonde from the sun.

Soon enough it will all be blonde, maybe that’s a good thing.

A rebirth of sorts. My eyes like the colour of the rain kissed earth from my childhood gleam with things I don’t want to look at too closely.

I drag them away and flick the overhead light off, vowing to myself to never look in a mirror again.

Making my way into the room in just my panties and bra, I slump on the bed and pull a worn paperback from my bag. Opening it to where I left off, I immerse myself in the tale of pirates and a princess. The words create a world where my nightmares can’t reach, my escape from reality.