surprised to see it is a medieval mace, with a short wooden handle and a foot-long chain, at the end of which is a spiked, metal ball. I’ve seen these before, in pictures of knights in armor: it was a deadly weapon used in the Middle Ages.
I run for, reach down and grab it before he can. Not that he even shows any interest in grabbing it. He doesn’t even go for it, clearly feeling he doesn’t need it. I don’t blame him.
I grab hold of the shaft and swing it, filled with a newfound confidence. If I can just connect, with just one blow, maybe I can actually win. It is a weapon of beauty, and the spiked metal ball swings around and around at the end of the chain, establishing a perimeter before me, keeping him at bay. I swing it again and again, like a helicopter, and it manages to keep him off guard, wary.
But he still slowly approaches, and as he does, I back up. As I take another step back, though, I suddenly slip on a pool of blood: my feet go out from under me, and I fall flat on my back. As I do, I lose my grip on the mace, and it goes flying across the cage. It actually by chance flies right at his head; but he is more agile than I suspect and ducks it easily. It goes over his head and smashes into the wall of the cage. The crowd ooohs at the close call.
I’m flat on my back, and before I can get up, he’s standing over me and reaches down, grabs my shirt and picks me up by my chest with both hands. He lifts me up high, way over his head, like a wrestler, then parades me across the ring, before the thousands of revelers. They eat it up, going wild.
“Mal-colm! Mal-colm! Mal-colm!”
Maybe this is his trademark move, before he finishes people off for good. As I dangle there in the air, so high above his head, helpless, I squirm, but it is futile. I know that there is nothing I can do. I am at his disposal. And I feel that any second will be my last.
He slowly walks me around the ring, again and again, savoring the adulation, the victory. The noise of the crowd grows to a deafening pitch. He lifts me, even higher, preparing to hurl me, and the last thing I think, before I go flying, is that I’m glad that Bree isn’t here to see my death.
NINETEEN
He throws me and I go flying through the air at full speed, not knowing I could move that fast, and land hard on the floor on the opposite side of the ring. I feel another rib crack, and as my head rolls and smashes into the metal, I feel another welt form on my forehead. I wonder how much more abuse my body can take.
I sense him coming at me again, and this time, I am just too beat up to move. I lay there, on the floor, face down, struggling to catch my breath. He takes his time. It is clear that he will kill me when he reaches me. It is a death walk.
I’m too tired and weak and delirious to do anything more than accept my fate. I feel I am destined to die. Here, in this place. At this moment. I feel as if I’ve failed, let Bree down.
As I lay there, breathing hard, blood coming from my mouth, slowly, over the sound of the ringing in my ears, over the din of the crowd, there gradually comes another sound. It is a voice. The voice of my Dad. It is a stern voice. The voice he always used to chastise me. To force me to push myself. To be more than I could be.
His voice becomes deafening, drowning out everything. I look up, my vision blurry, and for a moment I could swear I actually see Dad standing there, hands on his hips, scowling down. There is disapproval-even disgust-on his face. And that is what motivates me. That is what makes something snap inside.
I could never stand to see my father disapproving of me. I would always do whatever it took just to silence him, just to prove him wrong. This time is no different. I feel a rush of adrenaline as I feel myself surge with anger, with the need to prove him wrong. I’m filled with a new fury, and it forces me to my hands and knees.
The brute takes three big steps, winding up to deliver a knockout kick to my face. I can already tell that if the kick connects, it will break every bone in my face.
But now, I am ready. I surprise him by rolling out of the way at the last second, a split second before the kick reaches me. He misses and instead kicks the metal fence. He kicks it with such force that his foot lodges into one of the metal chain links.
I jump to my feet and in the same motion run across the ring and grab the mace. The brute yanks at his foot, trying to get it out of the cage-but he is stuck.
This time, I don’t wait. This time, I don’t hesitate. Finally, I have learned my lesson.
I charge across the ring, and with all I have, I swing the mace, wind up the ball. I realize I only have one shot at this, and I take aim for his huge, bald, muscular head.
I get closer to him. Ten feet…five.… I swing and let the ball go.
Suddenly, he yanks his foot out of the cage and turns and faces me.
I’ve already set the chain in motion and the ball is already spinning, flying over my head, through the air. And just as he turns to face me, the ball comes swinging around and lodges right into the side of his head. It lodges into his temple, and as it does, blood squirts out. I let go of the shaft.
The crowd is stunned into silence.
The brute takes a step back, stumbles, then reaches up in shock, grabs the shaft, and yanks it out of his own head. As he does, brains and blood come out.
I stand there, horrified, frozen. I can’t fathom how someone could continue to function after a blow like that.
But then, after a moment, he drops the shaft, and buckles to his knees. He falls forward on his face. His hands lay limp at his side, and a second later, to my shock, I realize he is dead. I have killed him.
After a second of stunned silence, the crowd suddenly leaps to its feet. It roars and screams louder than I’ve ever heard. And this time, they chant my name.
“Brooke! Brooke! Brooke!”
I barely even hear it. Whatever strength was left in me suddenly disappears, and a moment later, I feel the world spinning, feel my knees go weak, feel myself collapsing. The last thing I see is the floor racing up towards me, striking me in the face.
And then my world is blackness.
TWENTY
I’m not sure if I’m dead or alive. My body aches more than I could imagine, and I wonder if this is what it’s like to be on the other side. Somehow, I feel as if I’m still alive: if I were dead, I am hoping it would not be this painful.
I peel open one eye and see I am lying, face down, on a metal floor, in a darkened room, lit by red emergency lights. I look up, and struggle to make out the shape before me.
“Brooke?” a voice asks. It is a male voice, and I know I recognize it from somewhere, but can’t remember where.
“Brooke?” he asks again, softly.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, gently prodding me.
I manage to open my eye a bit more, and finally recognize the face: Ben. He leans over me, gently prodding me, trying to see if I’m alive.
“This is for you,” he says.
There is the sound of plastic scraping against the metal floor, and I am struck by the smell of food. But I’m too groggy to look at it, and I don’t really register what’s happening.
“I have to go now,” he says. “Please. I want you to have this.”
A second later there comes the sound of a door opening, and light floods the room. There is the sound of
