𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄,
𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒖𝒏

❛ she was fractured, in more ways
than one . . . he wondered why,
yet unbeknownst to him it
was all his own doing ❜

                         𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐔𝐍, 𝕿he memories of the past indulged me in a fantasy. A fantasy as breathtaking as the mere wind in my lungs — so precious, so fragile. It was a beauty god himself blessed upon me, creating something angelic like his mere wings were to shelter me from the ever-growing storm in my soul.

The storm was inevitable that much I knew, particularly in the world I was conceived in. Mother Nature ruled the world, wanting nothing more than to destroy the very people she had witnessed in agony destroy her creation. The beauty of the evergreen shades she touched tenderly, now rare to come across.

Yet, despite the destruction, the memories of the past allowed me to cope in remembrance of a time of far less suffering. Where I had everything and so much more.

The world was ending then, but much different from how it was ending now. Then, I had friends, parents, and a girlfriend whom I cherished. Now, I have enemies, a ghost, and no lover to love. Despite it being disheartening to admit, I knew the fantasy the memories had created for me were consequently and morally wrong, and yet I continued to reach for it with a shaky hand — wanting nothing more than to grasp unto that false reality built on dreams and hopes that were exactly that; dreams and hopes nothing ever set in stone.

The world my father and I envisioned was beautiful, where Mother Nature loved mankind as her own — where she accepted our faults and mistakes only if we promised to do better. The simple thought of Mother Nature halting her assault on humanity even for a moment, a second of tranquility. That's all we asked for regardless of how ambitious it sounded.

Running away from a privileged life enlightened me in more ways than one. Where the rich hid behind estates as tall as the Eiffel tower, and where the poor were forced to endure all of Mother Nature's fury.

                         And fury she held, in the statewide sandstorms that sucked every molecule of oxygen in the air, tornadoes with menacing flashes of thunder bursting through the sky lightning the already damaged earth alight, and the riveting rise of sea levels experienced all around the world — flooding major coastal cities like New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles.

The human species was succumbing to nature . . . as it should be.

But moments like these, where my hair blew crazily from the strong current of wind the faster the car I was on was riding, the more I wanted my impending doom to stand still — just long enough for the feeling of momentarily being free was fully engraved in my mind.

                         "Hey," the deep baritone voice of my father spoke to my left, breaking my trance from the lonesome desert surrounding us. "The stops just up ahead. You know what to do."

It took me a moment to break away from the barren area of landscape and turn my focus forward toward our destination, a lonesome gas station along the dirt road we were riding on. Yet, despite its rural placement, about a dozen of automobiles were parked right up front.

                         My body moved for me, almost robotic. The baseball cap in my lap felt heavy as I placed it over my head, like a mantle I was never destined to carry. Yet, despite how ponderous and formidable the worn out cap felt on my head a single glance from my father set my mind straight — well straight enough for me to assure I was covered in head to toe with clothing, disguising every bit of my body and distinguishing features from on lookers.

Too busy wrapped up in my task, I had failed to notice the halt of the music and the engine of the car.

As I reached down to lower a bit of my pant leg, a sudden hand obscured my vision for a bit before I felt it apply firm pressure to the bill of the cap further securing it to me.

"Dad!" I groaned, playfully swatting at the hand on my head. "I got it."

He chuckled but nonetheless pulled his hand back giving me the opportunity to look at him.

His salt and pepper hair were also covered in a baseball cap similar to the one he had gifted me, the only difference was the color. Mine was a raggedy worn green the same color of tree leaves and his was a red, the same red the green tree leaves would turn amidst a seasonal change.

His brown eyes were in complete contrast with the bemused smile on his face. They were in turmoil, like the way Mother Nature was currently residing — as if they were on the brink of a disaster. I could almost see myself in his eyes, but dared not to take a look closer.

                         "Okay," he glanced at the worn out station in front of them his smile slowly evaporating The bass of the music vibrating all around me, louder to me than the others. "I'm still not a fan of this," he said. "You're only seventeen, Sierra. No necesitas involucrarte en esto. Esto es mi trabajo, no el tuyo."

                         It was a speech I grew all to familiar with, I could almost recite it by memory.

I didn't blame him for his worry . . . I never did. My father suffered a life far worse than I can imagine. A classic rags to riches story with tragedy lurking in its depths, something I so craved to read in a book myself. Yet, there was no happy ending for him. Nor us, as a look at our destination proved it.

"Papa," I sighed while tugging my gaiter face mask above my nose. "Ya hablamos de esto."

"I know, babygirl, but I'm not happy about it."

"Well, it's too late now," A small smile adorned my face hidden by my mask. "Besides, you're a man–"

"– Of my word," He scoffed and playfully pushed me, amusement now lighting up his sunken eyes. "Yeah, yeah, smartass," he gestured to the back seat. "Don't forget the extra cloth's"

I gave him a small salute and welcomed the scorching air as I stepped out of the car. Its smoldering rays stung as they landed on the half of my face that was left uncovered. I tried not to bask in the moment, as it was the only time in six and a half months when Mother Nature allowed us that moment of tranquility for an entire day without our Ozone Masks. The first time in those months where we wouldn't have to worry all that much about our health but rather our normalcy.

A soft coo reached my ears followed by my father's voice, "Hey there, little man," I glanced at him as I noticed dark storm clouds in the distance. "You ready to watch your sister kick some ass?"

A coo was his only response as he fastened the toddler he was speaking to into our raggedy worn-out baby sling.

My attention turned back towards the horizon, as the storm clouds loomed menacingly above the earth. Every lightning strike on soil sent a jostle through me, despite the long distance.

"How far?"

I didn't need to glance at my father to hear the worry, once again, lace his voice.

"Three miles."

"Come on then," he urged. "In and out, just like we talked about."

With a last look, I turned and walked with him towards the gas station.

The sign on top read Mini-mart in dust covered red letters. Its walls were littered in sand as if Mother Nature held rage beyond belief against the little station and sent an EF5 sandstorm to avenge her, leaving behind nothing but its gas prices: 7.19 per gallon.

When we reached the door, a man with a dark hoodie over his head leaned on the window next to it, a cigarette in between his lips as he looked us up and down. Fortunately, my father's face was hidden behind his hat and mask, much like mine.

"May her fury guide our voyagers," the man began.

"And our adventures," My father continued as he tugged Naythan closer to his chest, the toddler cooing in response. "While we repay her for our defilement."

He blew a puff of smoke and nodded – satisfied before pulling out a set of keys and opening the door for us.

The inside was dark and in shambles, as if people ransacked the tiny station for all of its worth, leaving nothing but turned isles and the glass crunching underneath our feet.

The bass of the music grew louder as the man led us to the back of the gas station and into what seemed like an office or at least the remnants of one. To the right of the door we had just entered was a rusted metal cabinet, one I could vaguely remember being in our old home, where my parents used to stash important information.

The man walked to the corner of the room where a wooden cabinet was barred against a door.

It buzzed every moment the bass from the song was heard, indicating we were close.

The man moved the cabinet with a screech and rapped against the door, "Oy! We have new arrivals!"

I sent a glance towards my father who only had his eyes narrowed. A storm like no other present behind them.

The door opened an inch, allowing the music to flood my senses and for a man to peer at us through the crack. His eyebrows were bushy and his one single eye I could see was a deep gray– the color stormy clouds provided when they were ready to shatter the earth.

The man looked from me to my dad and stopped at the toddler in my fathers hands, "The usual fee," he began. Sticking his hand out palm up awaiting the fee he was talking about. I watched as my father rummaged through his pocket and pull out a wad of cash. Cash that we so desperately needed, yet too hard to come by. He placed the wad into the mans awaiting hand, who observed it with careful eyes before nodding curtly and finally opening the door.

The music infiltrated the room as the man stepped aside to let us in, so much so, Naythan placed his small chubby hands over his ears—like how I'd taught him to if we were in loud situations.

"Welcome to Lumina Lounge."

Flashing lights bounced off the cement walls, pinks, blues, reds, and greens so vivid I had only seen them in my childhood forced me to blink my eyes to adjust to the scenery. In the walls were what looked like glass cubicles, with men and women inside wearing extravagant masks that looked like they were etched with the most priceless jewels. Their clothes were much finer, ranging from intricate business suits to floor length ball gowns you'd see a girl wear for her quinceanera.

They were sipping on sparkly champagne, laughing and enjoying themselves as the rest of us tried not to look on with envy.

Spectators, I remembered by father calling them, people with so much wealth they didn't know what else to do with, they'd resort to throwing it at the biggest show they could find.

From outside of their luxurious cubicles were the rest of us–with our neutral colored clothing holding nothing but resentment in our eyes as we prepared ourselves for what was to come. Our fists tightly wrapped and muscles stretching as we eyed one another. Weighing on who our competition could be and strategizing on what the Spectators would love to see.

Fortunately for me, a quick scan of the room let me know that I was the youngest competitor here. Eyes already followed me as I stepped from one side of the room to the other, the flashing lights hazing my vision momentarily.

Who wouldn't find a seventeen year old girl who looked like she was way in over her head to be entertaining?

In the middle of the room was a worn out boxing ring with two men stood at corners eyeing each other as if the other were their prey. It was something I had only seen in a movie with my parents when I was much smaller, where everyone would root for the underdog in hopes to restore their faith in humanity, yet, the moment you looked closer was the moment you realized this wasn't a family movie.

Blood was dripping from their multiple wounds almost encompassing every inch of their limbs. Their knuckles were wrapped in a thin sheet of cloth—no padding. Their eyes I once believed to hold determination instead revealed desperation.

This was what the rich called entertainment, watching as the lower class fought out of sheer desperation for a couple of bucks. They held all of the power here, and we couldn't do a damned thing about it. Not if we wanted to feed our families for the night. Not if we wanted to rent shelter for incomparable weather.

"You remembered what I said right?" My fathers voice questioned from behind me. "They just want a show. Make it entertaining. Not too long and not too short. Be dramatic, over exaggerate your injuries," I turned to face him. "It's the only way to please them."

I nodded and took a deep breath, "Got it."

My dad could tell I was a bit overwhelmed, but decided not to question it. Instead, he gripped my shoulder and steered me towards a raggedy stained picnic table with an older gentleman counting bills. He had to have been in his early thirties or late twenties, with a stubble and dark brown eyes. His shoulder length hair was disheveled, like he couldn't even manage to put a comb through it.

"One fighter," my dad said without missing a beat.

The man glanced at my father before looking down at Naythan who cooed, "Signing up the kid, eh? Wouldn't be the first time a kid his age got destroyed."

My body tensed and my blood ran cold, "What did you just say?"

My father placed a hand on my shoulder giving me a reassuring squeeze, "No, my son is not fighting," he steered me in front of him. "My daughter is."
"Now you," he pointed a chipped finger at me. "They'd throw money at."

"That's what we're hoping for," my father said through gritted teeth. His smile would fool anyone who wasn't paying too much attention. "She's ready."

The man smirked, "You ready for the night of your life, sweetheart?"

Who would I be if I said no?

❛ god's gonna cut you down ❜ ༢ ͎۪۫ ༊*·˚ ╱
❪ heart of gold series, 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 book. ❫
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