Kore Katzmoto //d6 // fin

The bell rings and time stops. There is only my breath, the sweat dropping off the ends of my hair. My opponent stands across the ring, jogging in place, their black boots slamming against the white mat of the ring floor. They're bigger than me by four whole inches, but I sneer at them anyway. I can see the bright yellow of my face paint at the edge of my vision, the streaks across my cheekbones marking me as Kore Katzmoto: Maiden of Strong style.

My fingers flex, the thin white bandages wrapped around each knuckle resisting the motion. My opponent and I dance around the ring, walking in circles taking in one another. They lunge out, swiping a punch I easily miss. The crowd boos. It isn't a fair fight, she's got 60 pounds on me.

Suddenly, we meet in the middle. Our fingers interlock and we grapple, forcing the other one down for dominance. Boots dig into the mat, teeth bared as we struggle to gain the upper hand.

"Ready?" the woman whispers, her snarling expression hiding the words hissed between teeth. I give a cut nod and, to the gasp and horror of the crowd, she grabs a hold of my wrist and wretches it behind my back. I scream, eyes wide, reaching desperately for the rope only for her to swing me to the crowd. The air is forced out of my lungs as I hit the mat, the woman's knee digging into my back just enough to look real but also just enough to hurt. She gives my arm a dramatic twist and I cry out despite feeling no pain.

The referee kneels beside me. He motions for me to struggle just a bit longer. I wriggle under her knee, gasping and clawing for the bottom rope that is so close to my fingertips but so hopelessly out of reach.

A final twist. One last scream. I slap my palm into the mat over and over again.

Your loser by submission: Kore Katzmoto.

I stumble out of the ring into the back stage area. It's empty now, the other wrestlers either packed up for the night or out in the ring for the main event. I lean against the brick wall, placing my forehead against the cool stone. The light bulb flickers overhead, occasional drenching the entire locker room into darkness. The scent of unwashed ring gear lingering in the air.

I didn't think it'd always be like this. Fresh faced and ignorant I had assumed I could climb up the ranks rather quickly. A natural baby face they had said Cute as button, very likable.

However, likable did not a character make. They have a problem with my name, which is odd because it's my actual name. They say Kore sounds like an apple, like trash.

"It's Kore with a K, sir," I pointed out, standing my ground.

"I don't hear one."

He waved her away after unsuccessful pitches for ridiculous names, some vulgar, and some just stolen from tributes past. I don't need foul language to get over, and I don't need to wear some dead kid's name either. My mother gave me my name and it is perfectly fine how it is.

I grab my bag from a metal locker, slamming the door closed as hard I can. The scrapping metal gong echoes through the room but is overpowered by the screaming on the other side of the wall. The main event they all came for with the big names.

No one comes to see Kore get the shit kicked out of her by the next big thing.

I haven't been booked to win a match in a year and a half, and that's fine. People need to lose to keep it fresh and make it seem real. However, it's become a bad habit. New big heel to show off? Have them beat Kore. Upcoming face you want to get more ring time? Kick the shit out of Kore.

At this point if I ever won a match it'd be a fluke and make the other person look absolutely horrible. Beat by the loser of the promotion? No one in their right mind would allow that kind of match to go on.

I shouldn't be so negative. I get paid to do something I love. I don't have the mop floors at the college or shuffle test tubes between lab. I get to play in face paint and the bring home extra food for my family.

I sling my bag over a shoulder and make for the exit, not even bothering to switch my ring boots for something more pedestrian. I walk by the doorman who slips me ten dollars.

Ten dollars. I get ten dollars for tapping out. I say a quick thank you, after all he doesn't decide how to book or pay me, and slip into night air. It's refreshing to get a lung full of fresh air after having your face shoved into the sweaty mat. Wrestlers sweat a lot and it was never a pleasant smelling experience.

I walk to the the main road and start heading down the side of it towards home. I rub the back of my hand against my cheek, scrapping off the yellow I had so carefully applied only a few hours earlier. The paint isn't cheap, but I'm careful to ration it, scrapping every last ounce of it from its metal container. After so many months, I could apply in the dark, but I still watch myself in the mirror. Fingertips gliding daisy yellow just below the eyes all the way across the cheekbone to the hairline.

"Huh. Neat." Another performer said, watching her apply her face. That was easy for them say. A heel could slick hair back into a ponytail throw on some black shorts and call it a day. Faces, and especially faces the audience was practically screamed at not to care about had to be a little craftier. You have to make yourself so recognizable, or cool that the audience takes notice. Some sing, some spit poetry, some are good at insults. I'm not exactly talented in any of those areas, but if there is one thing I can do- I can fucking wrestle.


Once school lets out I'm in the gym running drills like a Career the week before the reaping. Rolls and dives, submissions and take downs. Moves practiced over and over until you're safe doing it and anyone who might work with you is safe as well. Don't want to throw a new move in and have it break the neck of a star performer.

Gravel crunches under my boots and I walk, the dim bulbs hanging over the street lighting my way. I pass the warehouse district, a few women stand outside the buildings their faces painted and their clothes cut short. I bet they get paid more than ten dollars for a night.

Don't be salty, Kore. Just two more reapings and people will start to see you as permanent. Once it's clear you'll reach adulthood they'll treat you like an adult.

I cross my fingers. I sure as fuck hope so. There's no promise it'll happen, hell there's no promise they'll keep sending me out every night to lose. One thing leads to another and suddenly I'm sitting on the bench in the back just in case someone tears a quad or something. A backup. If I ever get sent to the back, I'll just quite right then and there. I've worked too hard and for too long to be a back up. Too hard to be a jobber, but I'll take what I can get.

My heart twists in my chest as the childish dream plays over in my head. It would have been so nice to win. To have the bell ring and people cheer of me. the referee would raise my hand in the air and finally Kore Katzmoto would be declared winner by pin fall, by submission, by fucking anything. I'd take count out for fuck's sake.

It does something to a person's soul to constantly be beat down. Even if I never get truly hurt, having someone stand over me declared conqueror over my body always felt invasive. Staring up at the rafters of the arena, listening to the crowd roar while I pretend to be so damaged beyond repair that all I can do is lay and wait for the celebrations to be over.

It's in those moments, catching my breath and staring at nothing that I feel the most beaten. Not when the bell rings or when the ref counts to three, but when I just have to sit there and listen to the cheers.

It feels like shit.

I pass by an strip of abandoned shops, a seamstress' sign hangs halfway off the building. Not that it matters, the windows are broken and any fabric inside has been thoroughly picked over.

Calm thoughts, Kore.

I hit the residence part of District Six where taller buildings turn into short stubby houses. I walk down the sidewalk, reaching into my bag for a can of air freshener. I squirt the spray in the air in front of me and walk through it. My lungs seize and I fight off a coughing fit as I turn the corner onto the my street.

I walk up to the door and knock four short times before entering. The rooms are all dark, but the television's blue glow illuminates the family room. Mom sits in a chair facing the TV, but her milky eyes don't see it.

"I'm home, Mom."I say, leaning over her chair to give her a hug. She coughs, caught in the cloud of deodorant. "Sorry."

I reach into my bag pulling out my meager earnings for the night and slip them into her hand. My fingers pat the back of her wrinkled hands.

"Thank you, Kore," she says, her voice gravely. "Come sit, will you tell me what the kids look like this year?"

"Of course."

I kneel beside her chair, throwing my bag aside. Peering at the small television set I look for the young faces that will be displayed this year.

"The girl from Six is small and pale. She has big hair that sticks straight up. The boy has light hair and small eyes and a strong chin." I turn to see if she is still listening. She nods along with my words, taking in each feature and drawing up a mental picture.

"And you, dear? How do you look tonight?"

I laugh, spreading my legs out in front of me and nearly lying down on the nice rug in the front room. Each new giggle builds on a cramp in my stomach.

Oh, if only she knew just how I looked right now.

When my chuckles finally die down I lean my head against her leg, resting on her knee covered in a worn lap quilt made twenty years ago. Fingers run through my hair, nails lightly scratching my scalp. I close my eyes, savoring the comforting feeling.

"I look tired."