Take 1: Blood Sport

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
First of the three short stories I will submit to your critics!

A week from now I will poll you guys to see which story you want for a weekly continuation.

Take 1: Blood Sport
A girl with a blooddrenched past is being held prisoner for the sake of her special powers. She fights in the ring with those with powers like hers to the death, until they take what is most precious to her and she plans a rebellion ...

Submitted: November 25, 2013

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Submitted: November 25, 2013

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A/N: Turned this one into a novel, continue to read it here: http://www.booksie.com/thrillers/novel/lucy_kajiura/blood-sins/chapter/1
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I always wondered why somebody didnt do something about it. 
Then I realized, I am someBody.
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"As long as you have your arms strength, you also have a weapon, see?" The kid nodded enthusiastically, her long mouse-brown hair rippling down her narrow shoulders. She was maybe five, and small for her age. Her father was showing her fighting moves, as sleek as a cobra, almost like he was dancing. As the leader of the doujo he was a great man, and an even greater fighter. 
She knew what her mother would say, skipping school to stay here and learn to fight from her dad. Her mother would say 'That`s not the right thing for a little lady, you should learn to behave my dear!' but in the same breath she'd swoop her into her arms and hug her tight, tickle her and make her tell about why she was skipping classes in the first place. She'd listen and nod and laugh and make her a hot chocolate and then make her pinky-promise to stay for all the lessons tomorow.
The dream changed. She had no control over it, didn't want this, no, not like this, not here not now, why always this. Why couldn't it just stay that way, that peaceful lovely way  ... why
 "Who are you?" The screams.  The blood. The blood everywhere. Bodies ripped apart, bodies ripped to pieces. Everything, like a slaughterhouse. The crying. The tears, the blood, oh my god so much blood. The cat, the neighbours cat all cut open, her parents, her father, his face, all blood. A hand, an arm, lying on the floor. So much blood.
The talking. The cameras, the articles, the people, the talking ... 
Happiness. Death. Talking. 
And here I am. Lying with my eyes wide open, breathing heavily, newly awoken from my nightmare. The one I always have. In a prison. In a cell. In a bed.
Slowly I calm myself down. Just a dream. Just a nightmare. Just a memory.
My name is Celly, and I am a murderer.
When I was little, just about five, my parents were killed in a brutal attack. Someone literally ripped and cut them to pieces before my very eyes until they were nothing more than meat bits. They say it was me, but I don't remember anymore. They put me in a hospital at first. Then the questions started, and there was nobody but me there. There never had been anybody but me in our house that day. I was tried before a jury. I had my sixth birthday in the hospital before they sentenced me guilty of manslaughter and put me on death row at the city prison. A six year-old girl, so thin her jeans slipped off her hips.
I shove that thought far from me as I try to get my hair brushed with my hands. I don't know what time it is, my cell has no window, but after that nightmare there's no way I`m going back to sleep. I change my clothes and slip into a pair of shoes. I have changed a lot since I was that thin little girl.
Absent-mindedly I push open the leaning cell door and wander off. The collar around my neck itches. It's what we get to wear in exchange for the limited freedom of walking down a hallway to a shared bathroom and a community hall, which is really nothing more than a rundown place that looks like a bar but serves nothing but cold soda. If I step out of the boundaries this collar sets for me, I will be electrocuted immediatly. No matter how many years I've worn it, the anxiety of accidentally stepping over an invisible line follows me everywhere.
The community hall is half empty. There are some worn-down chairs and a couch with white stuffing spilling out. The counter, behind which a small fridge with only a few bottles remaining sums loudly, is of a curious color that always catches my eye.
Not today. There's a new one. All the muscles in my body tense up.
I`m not only on death row, I am in a special programme, called Blood Sins - there are only about twenty people in my block and while I call it a 'programme` it really is just another way to make us bleed. We're here for bloodsport. We fight each other to the death for rich people's entertainment and to help them win bets. We are the lowliest of scum. Those nobody will miss. No living relatives, nobody on the outside world to shed a tear for our cruel demise.
Today the people in the community hall were Sethie, a teensy twelve-year old girl with hair literally from her head to her toes, black as the night and smooth as satin, leaning over the bar counter, Frey, a guy with narrow shoulders and hands like a pianists as well as Lucian, a well-spoken man in his thirties, the oldest of us.
And he. The new one. A boy, about my age, lost like a butterfly in a slaughterhouse. Blond hair, big blue eyes, a classical european look, probably somewhere around Sweden. Not like Sweden existed anymore - it was all one homogenous world government now. The prisoners here are all from all over the world, so I`m not surprised.
He doesn't look like he'll amount to much, thin arms and a scholar look, a schoolboy through and through. How did he even make it in here?
Sethie noticed me entering and flashed me a bright smile, one that was usually reserved for newcomers like the blond boy. She was trying especially hard to seduce this one. A teensy twelve-year old, and the most vicous black widow I've ever had the pleasure of meeting.
---
A/N: Turned this one into a novel, continue to read it here: http://www.booksie.com/thrillers/novel/lucy_kajiura/blood-sins/chapter/1


© Copyright 2017 Lucy Kajiura. All rights reserved.

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