That crowd.

Their cheering.

Their praises.

Sometimes when I hear them singing, I develop a mental illness. I feel confused and powerless and unknown in my own body. I feel like I have to slip into another, just to please myself, just to please their praises. I don't understand why they love me. Is it because they're sick? Is it because they like blood and violence? Or is it because I'm their only real entertainment for the day?

When I develop that mental illness, I float, I shake my head, and I plead. I plead to anyone in front of me, shouting and screaming, just so I can get out of my body. I also dream- slip out reality, slip out of my mind and feelings and thoughts. It's a great feeling- it's a great gift. Because day after day after day of fighting without cheering makes me depressed and lonely and when I finally hear them, hear their praises, it's like my wishes and childhood dreams have been fulfilled.

Oh, only if you could hear their praises.

Only if you got to cherish their praises when they saw me. Only if you go to see how their faces light up when I walk into the ring. Only if you got to see how many people scream and shout and cheer me on, when I'm inside that ring, when it's impossible for me to escape.

Adrenaline shoots through my body like a rocket shoots into space. My heart beats faster, my pulse rises up so far that you can see it sticking out of my skin and my hands start shaking. I want to please them, I need to please them. Because if I don't- I hear them stop.

I hear them halt their praises.

So, I need to please them. I use whatever I have, just to keep them cheering.

And then I'm lucid again, when my opponent is killed, when I'm all bloody and shell-shocked and when my bones ache from the power of my dead rival's kicks and punches and when my heart slows down. And when I'm lucid again, their praises mean nothing to me.

I get this sick feeling in my throat. A raw throat. It's like I'm about to vomit, but can't, just because I'm so sickened at myself. And then reality slaps me, kicks me and stabs me in the stomach. And then I almost shake my head. I almost stop and shout at the crowd. I almost say, "Is this your life? Is your life all focused on violence and death of the innocent? Huh! Is THIS YOUR LIFE?"

And then I realize it's partly my fault. I realize they are not the ones who killed the limp body on the floor. I realize I'm the one that sheds the blood; I'm the one who stops their hearts from beating and lets their muscles relax and lets their souls drift off into the unknown. I'm the one.

But then again, it's not all my fault. Because I'm not the one who forces young woman and men to be put in armour. I'm not the one who fights them to the death. I'm not the one who lets the cruelty happen. I'm not the one who pressures me to survive, to use my skills against someone who has none. I'm not the one who likes the fear in the hopeless when they're in the ring, clueless and naïve. I'm not the one.

The only thing that keeps me alive it their praises. Because when I get into that ring, slightly scared, and annoyed at all of them, I turn to their sing-song praises. I use that to my advantage- I make them cheer, I make them shout, I make them love me. I kill for them, just to hear their praises. Because when I hear their praises, I know with up most certainty, I can live another day.

If I hadn't someone to live for, I'd also of given up. But my sister, my sister, pushes me as well. My survival is her survival, and my survival is the crowd's entertainment. Some days I don't know whether she is alive. But I keep pushing, I keep fighting. Because I need to survive another day, just to edge closer to my freedom.

That crowd, their cheering, their praises.