A - Familiar

Because you have no comprehension of what you have done, you may sit
in the stalls for a time, and watch. You sit towards the back, the
stone coarse against your buttocks. Your hands, bandaged, rest upturned
in your lap. The amphitheatre is open to an overcast sky, cirrus clouds
tinged with purple. The hairs on the back of your neck are stood on
end. You arch your back. The string round your ankle feels tight. It
rubs.

You watch. The tendons in Petra's neck are pulled taut. They bulge like
sweaty, fleshy cables. She steps back and snorts air into her nostrils.
Her eyes are red in the corners. Her leotard is dirty yellow. As she
turns, the light catches the weft and curve of her tricep, skin wet and
smooth as a whale's back. Her collar chafes, you can see that; the
tender flesh, the weeping welts, the wine dark beard of dried blood
that spatters the gaunt, wan memory of a cleavage. The chain jingles,
the collar tightens round her throat. You can see the lines under her
eyes. You see her pallid complexion and blue lips and you can imagine a
corpse, you can imagine her being cold to the touch.

Behind her stands Perseus. He pants out heavy, wet breaths. He raises
his paw and tugs on the chain, growling, his teeth thick, cracked,
rotten. His fur is brown, matted. Where it has fallen out, burgeoning
pink sores have filled the gaps. Dead fur dusts the stone slab floor of
the arena. Perseus stands erect, tongue hanging from his broken muzzle,
back bowed, scored with long intersecting lacerations. The chain is
fastened to a cuff on his right paw. With his left paw, he worries at
his chest and legs, scratching, scratching, scratching. Perseus is
slowly skinning himself. When he moans, the sound is thick and
guttural.

Petra clutches the bat in a white-knuckle grip. The ping-pong table is
chipped around the edges. There is a place on the green plastic net
where it has torn, and been stitched back together using black thread.
Petra holds a ping-pong ball in her clammy palm. Her face has been
tuned too high; any moment it will snap. She is all sinew.

Hitomi's eyelids have been sewn together with cotton. He wears a
surgical gown. His breathing is ragged and he staggers, heeling and
teetering on thin, crooked legs. His right forearm ends in a stump. His
left forearm ends in a stump. A ping-pong bat is strapped to his right
forearm. The kestrel on his shoulder has no name. Its talons pierce the
gown. Occasionally a bead of blood rises from the wound. Occasionally,
the kestrel turns its head and shrieks. The shriek is the loudest thing
in the amphitheatre.

It occurs to you that you know these people's names. You do not know
how you know. You do not know how long you have been here, how long you
have been watching. Petra is preparing to play the point. You remember
her preparing. You remember much preparation. You do not remember a
point having ever been played.

Erin is still asleep. His body is lithe, keen. Sleeping, he feigns
meekness. You can imagine he is a normal greyhound. You cannot see his
rheumy eyes, cannot see his frothing fangs. He shifts a little in his
sleep. You feel the frayed string tug on your ankle.

Like a slow, winter sunrise, gradually you realise what you did.