Erinn Hayes

There were about 40 women training in a cement studio.

Rock hard abs, chiseled triceps, and hollowed out clavicles for miles.

A bare fluorescent bulb hung from the dripping ceiling.

Spikey strode past me and blew a whistle.

The women froze.

Brides, we have a new recruit.

She dragged me forward and pushed me toward the group.

I felt the daggers of 40 pairs of eyes on my broken body.

Spikey continued, you're here because you have the desire to succeed, but do you have the will to endure?

She swept her hand around the room.

Look around you.

Only half will survive.

I looked at the woman to my left.

She was cute and blonde with adorable freckles and pearl studs in her ears.

I guess she was in her mid-twenties.

She was wearing a tank top that said, The Mrs. in glitter.

And her ankles were wrapped snugly in pink one-pound weights.

And I was just about to ask her where she'd found her adorable fitness accessories when she snapped her head forward, knocking her skull into my forehead with a sickening thwack.

My journey had begun.

I was assigned a straw mat on the floor of a long tunnel, and I kept to myself.