The dream never changes. Not in any way that matters at least.

I am back there, in one of the countless fighting pits. It doesn’t matter which one, they’re all the same: an earthen bowl, hard packed by feet and cemented by untold galloons of blood, capped by a dome of rock blackened by the smoke of ever-present, ever-guttering torches. Built into that dome are the balconies, hewn from the rock itself, each accommodating one or several of the shadowy giants who have come to revel in the death matches. My Master is among them. This I know.

I am in the pit, as always. I am in the pit and so is my Enemy. Tonight it is a ragged Beast, standing on two legs and easily three times my size, all matted fur and claws and teeth. Eyes blood red like my eyes are blood red. It is the one meant to kill me, to rend me limb from limb. Whether it will feast on my flesh afterward or toss my corpse aside to rot, I do not know. I only know that I must kill it first. It roars and I know I must kill it.

Somewhere, way deep down, the child Jimmy also knows that this Beast is like me. That it was made in this place, in the image of this place, into the monster that it is. That it was made to fight, to torture, to kill. The child Jimmy knows this and pities the Beast.

But then, another voice enters my head, setting my wrecked and jagged teeth on edge. It is my Master’s voice:

I am my Master’s Knife
I am my Master’s blooded implement
Wielded without touch
Acting without thought
I am my Master’s weapon
I am my Master’s Knife

And there is no more Jimmy. There is only the Weapon. The Knife.

I roar, the two short swords in my claws glint in the half-light of the torches. I clash them together and begin to close on my Enemy.

I am my Master’s Knife

I roar again and charge, blades flashing. Those horrible claws meet me before I can land a blow. I am sent flying. The world topples end over end.

I am my Master’s blooded implement

Even as I hit the ground, my broken arm is knitting itself, my screams of pain are a chorus, a part of the performance. At this point, even I am used to them.

Wielded without touch

I stand, and where my arm had been sundered, a new growth of bone stands out from the torn flesh. For a moment, I flex the limb, admiring it.

Acting without thought

The beast is now moving in, its hideous cries setting the earth beneath me to shaking. I raise my eyes and meet it’s glare and give it a horrible grin. The Knife is enjoying this.

I am my Master’s Weapon

When my Enemy pounces, I let it come. Instead of feinting or dodging away, I drive myself upward, my two swords slashing, tearing, unstitching the Monster. The force of its fall and of my propulsion, pushes me deep into its gut, my blades opening the way.

I am my Master’s Knife

I hack and hack and hack. And scream and scream and scream.

I am my Master’s Knife

Finally, I burst through the Beast’s back, covered in black blood, gore, shit. I am still screaming. Wiping the blood from my eyes, I look up, and the first thing I see is my master staring down from his balcony. He is smiling.

I am my Master’s Knife

I am still screaming.

*

I wake in the darkness to a hand shaking me. “Jimmy…”

Before I know it, my own hand has lashed out, too-strong fingers wrap around the throat of an unknown assailant.

A choking sound.

My eyes pop open. My fingers are digging into the throat of the old man, Felix I think his name is, who sleeps in the cot next to me. I have to will myself to release him. He falls back and I jump up, kneeling next to his prone form where he’s collapsed.

“Christ Felix, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Felix.” I can hear it in my voice: the fear, the regret. Please God. No. Not again. I suddenly realize I’m sweating.

The old man sits up sputtering and pushes me away. “Jimmy…” he rasps, “Fuck Jimmy, you was just…” more coughing, “You was screaming so loud is all…” Felix hacks and spits before falling silent.

“Oh man, Felix, I’m sorry. Fuck. I was having a nightmare…” A flashback. “Christ, I’m sorry.” I help him up to sit on his cot. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.” I get up and dig through my stuff. The shelter’s still quiet at this hour, apparently no one else minds screaming. Must be four, maybe five, in the morning. I come back with a bottle of water. “Here, drink it.”

Felix has stopped coughing. He just sits there, rubbing his throat and staring at me. Angry. I don’t know how long I stay there, just staring back, feeling his rage pour out of him and into me. Finally, I set the bottle down by his feet and grab my pack. “Well…Keep it then.” No need to say sorry again. Sorry doesn’t do it.

I get up and head out into the too-early morning. Stop by the front door of the shelter and pick a couple of half-smoked butts off the ground. Fish the crumpled match-book from my pocket, light one.

It’s later than I thought. The horizon is purpling up. I just smoke and watch it, don’t know for how long.

You see, for most of my life the world didn’t have horizons.

When the butt’s kicked, I flick it into the gutter, readjust my pack, and walk out into the Sacramento dawn thinking, It’s about damn time I find my People…