Devils

I

There used to be a hierarchy in place. Hell used to be organized. It was simple. There are humans and there are demons, no gray area. But then they took humans as play things and then the darklings came, children with both demon and human blood. No one was sure what to do, how they deserved to be treated.

Then the King spoke, "If it has human blood, it is not one of us."

Children were abandoned, sold, discarded. Raised as we were born, in utter turmoil. My mother sold me when I was eight, when they could tell I was going to be beautiful with large, brown eyes and smooth, light brown skin. The demon that used her said his friend would pay well for me and that was that. I cried and screamed, but she merely counted the coins she had been given.

I was worth half a loaf of bread.

Of course, half a loaf is a lot when you have nothing, but it still hurt my feelings. Mikkel's girls raised me to become one of his toys, a thing that played with him and didn't resist his pursuits. I became a sound investment, so sound that he started getting paid by other demons for my company. Soon, I was his best girl, his most prized possession. He began taking me to the gladiator fights to work and entertain while they watched the shows. The demons flaunted me and treated me well by their standards.

Until I screwed up.

Until I watched the fight for too long.

Until the demon I was supposed to be servicing threw me over the side into the arena.

I was perfect until then, when I was thrown where there are no rules. Anyone and anything in the arena is free game to maim, torture, and kill.

I stood on shaky legs, one ankle trembling from the pressure. My eyes scan the field where two gladiators started from their positions. They wore no protective gear, but each clenched a weapon in their fists. The larger man, who's roughly the size of a boulder, holds a spear while his opponent, a toothpick in comparison, held a sword.

Without hesitation, the larger of the men sticks out his spear and pierces the other's neck. Blood splatters everywhere as he slowly makes his way towards me. I back against the wall, my eyes desperately seeking help.

But no one cares, and those who do look away.

Every eye in the arena watches as he stops a foot in front of me. My eyes dart to Mikkel, desperate from deliverance of what will inevitably be a painful death. He watches with a bored expression, his thoughts clear.

If you win, you survive.

But I know I won't. I wasn't raised to fight. I was raised to be submissive and do as I was told.

The gladiator tosses his spear aside, and for a moment I'm hit with with relief.

But he hits me first, knocking me to the ground. The crowd cheers as I try to stand, but he kicks me in the stomach. I cry out, positive that the excruciating pain is because my insides are bleeding. He kicks me again, harder, trying to out on a show that will please the demons. He stomps on different joints and kicks me when I cry until I feel limp, completely at his mercy.

But this is not a world of mercy.

He lifts his foot, ready to crush my windpipe and let we writhe until I can't breathe any longer. As his foot descends, I roll out from under him and desperately throw myself at the spear to try and save myself.

He kicks me so hard I fly through the air to the center of the field. I hit the ground hard, bones cracking on impact. I wheeze a breath, feeling my broken ribs shift, some stabbing at my lungs. Tears fill my eyes, but I let them flow freely as the gladiator levels his spear to my throat. His eyes lock with mine and he shows a sliver of pity as he looks at me. In that moment, I know I can't blame him. You can't survive if you're not prepared to kill one way or another, I should know. I give a small nod, allowing him to know that I recognize his position and respect what must be done.