Chapter 28: Legacy of Pain
The antiseptic stink of the hospital corridor clung to Ingrid Nielsen like a second skin as she shuffled towards the cage entrance. The cheap, pale blue hospital gown, slit scandalously up the back and sides, flapped loosely around her waist and thighs with each painful step. It offered no dignity, no protection. Only exposure. Angry red surgical scars, precise lines of brutal stitching, mapped the violation across her lower belly and inner thighs, stark against her pale skin under the arena’s harsh spotlights. Each tug of the fabric against raw flesh sent a fresh jolt of agony up her spine. She leaned heavily on the cold steel cage door frame, breathing shallowly through gritted teeth. The roar of the crowd was a distant, hostile ocean.
Across the cage, the entrance curtain ripped aside. Scarlett emerged, bathed in the spotlight. She wore Violet’s preserved gear: the faded, slightly musty-smelling purple silk kimono, the frayed obi belt cinched tight around her waist. Beneath it, the black lace thong was barely visible. On her feet, Violet’s intricately beaded flip-flops slapped softly against the canvas floor. The effect was grotesque – a cheap imitation draped over a younger, less formidable frame. Scarlett’s eyes, hard and glittering with borrowed malice, scanned Ingrid’s exposed wounds, a cruel smirk twisting her lips. The scar on her cheek seemed deeper under the lights.
"Look at you," Scarlett sneered, her voice cutting through the crowd's murmur. She took a few deliberate steps forward, the flip-flops whispering on the mat. "The mighty Iron Maiden. Reduced to leaking stitches and a paper dress." She stopped just outside grappling range, her manicured fingers – nails painted a venomous purple – curling possessively around the ends of the frayed obi sash hanging from her waist. She twisted it slowly, deliberately, like she was testing its strength. "Heard Vi did a real number on you. Heard you screamed like a stuck pig."
Ingrid straightened as much as she could, ignoring the fire tearing through her abdomen. Her ice-blue eyes locked onto Scarlett’s, cold and unwavering. "Heard Violet choked on her own blood," she countered, her voice low but carrying. "Heard she died begging." A flicker of uncertainty, quickly masked by rage, flashed in Scarrid's eyes. Ingrid pushed off the cage frame, taking one agonizing step forward. Her bare feet felt cold and vulnerable on the canvas. "You wearing her leftovers doesn't make you her, girl. Just makes you pathetic."
Scarlett’s smirk vanished, replaced by a snarl. "Pathetic?" She spat the word. "I'm finishing what she started!" Her fingers tightened on the sash ends, knuckles whitening. "You think those stitches hold you together? Violet ripped you open!" She took another step, closing the distance. The scent of old silk and Scarlett’s cheap perfume mingled unpleasantly with the lingering hospital smell clinging to Ingrid. "Inside and out. Everyone saw the tapes. Everyone knows you're broken."
The cage door clanged shut behind Ingrid, sealing them in. The referee’s hand hovered, hesitant. Scarlett ignored him, her focus entirely on Ingrid’s pain. "My bitch started carving you up," Scarlett hissed, leaning in slightly, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper meant only for Ingrid. "Time I finished the job." Her fingers snapped the sash taut between her hands like a garrote. "Right here. Right now."
The referee finally dropped his hand. "Fight!"
Scarlett exploded forward, not with Violet’s eerie grace, but with raw, angry speed fueled by humiliation and borrowed hatred. She didn't kick or punch. Her hands, still gripping the sash ends, shot out – not to strike, but to entangle. She whipped the thick silk sash like a rope, aiming to loop it around Ingrid’s neck or wrists.
Ingrid reacted on pure, pain-fogged instinct. She twisted, the movement tearing a gasp from her lips as stitches pulled. The sash whistled past her throat, catching instead on her shoulder and upper arm, tangling in the flimsy gown sleeve. Scarlett yanked hard, trying to pull Ingrid off balance.
Ingrid staggered, agony blinding her for a split second. Her bare foot slipped slightly on the canvas. Scarlett saw the opening. She surged in, abandoning the sash momentarily, driving a knee upwards towards Ingrid’s exposed, scarred abdomen.
Ingrid saw it coming. Too slow to fully dodge, she turned her hip, taking the knee hard on the meaty flesh just above her pelvic bone, away from the worst stitches. Pain exploded, white-hot and nauseating. She grunted, doubling over slightly, but her hands shot out. Not to push Scarlett away. To grab.
Her fingers, still strong despite everything, clamped onto the front panels of the purple kimono where it crossed Scarlett’s chest. She gripped the worn silk with desperate strength, using Scarlett’s own momentum against her. As Scarlett recoiled from the knee strike, Ingrid hauled backwards, pulling Scarlett off her feet and down onto the canvas with her.
They crashed together in a tangle of limbs, silk, and pale blue hospital cotton. Scarlett landed half on top, her flip-flop clad feet scrambling for purchase. Ingrid gasped, the impact jarring her wounds, stars dancing behind her eyes. But she didn’t let go of the kimono. Scarlett, enraged, tried to push herself up, fist cocked back to drive down into Ingrid’s face.
Ingrid acted faster. Still gripping the kimono front, she wrenched sideways with all her remaining strength, rolling them violently. Scarlett shrieked as she was flipped onto her back, Ingrid landing heavily on top, straddling her waist. The kimono ripped loudly at the shoulder seam.
Scarlett bucked wildly, spitting curses. "Get OFF me, you ruined cunt!" Her hands scrabbled, nails raking down Ingrid’s bare arms, drawing thin lines of blood. She tried to knee upwards again, aiming for the scars.
Ingrid shifted her weight, pinning Scarlett’s thighs down with her own. The pain was a constant, grinding roar, but fury and survival instinct drowned it out. She looked down at Scarlett’s contorted, hate-filled face, seeing Violet’s ghost in her eyes. Ingrid leaned down, her breath hot on Scarlett’s cheek, her voice a guttural rasp scraped raw by pain and rage.
"Your bitch started it," Ingrid hissed, her fingers tightening in the torn silk, pulling the kimono open wider, exposing more of the black lace beneath. She saw the flicker of remembered terror in Scarlett’s eyes – the violation in the warehouse. "But you?" Ingrid’s free hand shot down, not to the lace, but to the frayed obi sash still tangled around Scarlett’s waist and her own arm. She grabbed a handful of the thick silk. "You’re just the cleanup crew." She yanked the sash tight, pulling it up between their bodies. "Let’s see how well Violet taught you to choke." She looped the sash quickly around Scarlett’s exposed throat, the frayed edges scratching the skin. Scarlett’s eyes widened in genuine panic. She clawed frantically at Ingrid’s wrist, her legs kicking uselessly against Ingrid’s pinning weight. Ingrid leaned in, putting her weight behind the improvised garrote, the silk biting into Scarlett’s neck. Violet’s flip-flops beat a frantic, useless tattoo against the canvas. The crowd’s roar reached a fever pitch, a wall of sound pressing down on the cage. Ingrid’s stitches screamed. Her vision blurred. But her grip on the sash held. Scarlett’s face began to darken.