Down low

Battle and its deadly aftermath is not what careers are taught. Careers are taught how to win, and if they don't do that they die. Those who avoid that death are ghosts. I'm a ghost. Kyanite's a ghost. Matt is now a ghost. We are all shadows on the edge of the pregames, and only Mark survives it unscathed. In reality, that isn't entirely true - we will all have our scars - but he won. He was the real career. But 'how much is that worth?' I think to myself. Winning is only an accolade, and that is only if you call it winning. I call my defeat at the hands of Matthew a victory as it taught me far more than I would have hoped a real victory would have done. The drums of war echo deeply in a fighter until he enters the ring. The ring turns silent and the crowd's noise becomes a numb tapping, ticking and tocking to the rhythm of a clock. I only heard the drums again when I first fell during my fight with Matt. The drums roared in my ears until all other sound was dried up. The beating only truly ceased when I accepted defeat. And that was only when I awoke the next day.

I watch the fight, and my eyes fail to detach themselves from what is occurring in front of me. I feel a rush of guilt run through me, as memories from my fight slip into my head again - from the recesses of my mind. During our fight, Matt and I, I could have surrendered. I was ruthless, and stupid. If I surrendered, he would have won this fight, and I would not have to face the hardship of all this. Matt, defeated. Me, defeated. Mark, victorious. My eyes lull as I watch Matthew cling to his pride, leaving the arena in what seems to be an attempt at dignity-preservation.

Whilst Mark clings to his own personal glory, however, there are a hundred eyes on him who could possibly resent no person more. Arrogance on the field is only something that gets you so far, and to that avail - Matt is the real winner. He fought with pride, but fought for more than himself, whether he knew it or not.

I use my crutches to get myself back into the hallways of the arena and through which I am able to find the medical room. Due to the fact that guards are not in huge amounts, I am simply able to get there easily enough. At the entrance however, there are two and they don't seem keen on letting me through. Until, of course, they see the scars on either side of my neck. They recognize me. "You're that kid from the last fight, right?" I nod at them. "Come to finish the job?" He says, mockingly at my apparently pathetic attempt at an assassination. "Can you just let me in so I can see if he's alright?"

"No. Why should we let you, of all people, when there's a hundred people upstairs wanting to know how he is too?" I can't bring out an answer that is necessarily witty or liable for retaliation. I contemplate leaving, until a sudden though comes to my head and then mouth; "Because he did the same for me." They look a bit confused. I explain briefly, without the drama, how Matthew visited me when I was in a similar state. "... Fine." He steps aside, glaring at me whilst the other has squinted eyes watching my every move. My movement is nothing remarkable nor quick, the crutches slow me down. I get in and there's a seat near the door, a little away from the chair. I sit myself down, putting the crutches into a pair next to me.

"Why did I miss?" He seems to ask the room. "Because you aren't a psychopath." I answer him. I sit there, not smiling. My eyes run quickly along his wounds and I lean back in the chair, which is a metallic black.

"What are you doing here?" I feel a sense of unease run down my as a stand still by the bed with the bag of saline, holding it for the doctor. My mouth doesn't move but I look at her with a glare of concern. What's this, a party? I think to myself privately. In the absence of my reply I can't help but hear Matt plea; “Don’t come in here! Leave me alone.” I look to him, and then to Gala. I am unsure what to think, since I've never met her nor do I know who she is. Finally I muster up something to say, but it isn't my place to tell her to leave - even though Matt has just told her to.

I can hear the increasing beep from the heart-rate monitor, which makes my own heart feel conscious and controllable. I feel it in my chest. It tells me that Matt probably meant me as well. It's strange how I learn to trust people to trust me. In the midst of my willingness to help, I had forgotten the very foundation; what if he doesn't want the help? What would I even do in such a situation as to refuse treatment? He must feel much worse than I did.

Guilt. I feel it yet again. I pushed him to this. I counted on him to bring back a victory, he needs to know that it isn't as big of a deal as it may look. Maybe that would make him feel better.

But he is in no state for debate. The lion is growling and the chains are being put around his cage for the next month and so of recovery. I've never liked lions or tigers. I've always been a panther or a cheetah. Fast, quiet. I don't make a fuss. It brings me to find little understanding as to why people would refuse company, and help. Companionship is strength, I've always told myself. "We're staying." I say, assuming that Gala isn't some kind of assassin. I say nothing else. I want to say how I don't care for the fact he lost. I want to tell him that he has support. Maybe it is apparent without words.