me. My blade lays abandoned a foot away, my cheek stinging. Numbly, I touch my face, stare in shock as my hand comes away red and feel the sand leave angry welts across my cheek. A flash of silver appears again above me.
"Cedo." He demands, sword in hand, perfectly positioned to make sure I never have to fight again. Yield. Never.
Flailing, lashing out, my foot catches the back of his ankle. Suddenly we are both on the ground, grappling, swinging hard as we can. His fist catches my bloody cheek, my elbow sticks in his ribs. I revel in his wheezing breaths, laughing as he flails on the tractionless sand. My chest feels as though it will explode, my breaths ragged. His fingernails claw across my arms, raking deep gashes. I scramble backwards, desperation building. My dagger is within reach. Already Phyllon is rising, preparing to advance again. I lunge for the small dagger, grip it tight. MOVE.
With a final, guttural cry, I swing my blade, drive it straight up through his ribcage. He is dead before he hits the ground. My head is pounding, my ribs feel as though they will cave in. Scorching sand scalds my bloody knees, my constant companion. I can't catch my breath, gasping for air even as the two beside me cannot. Behind me, Phyllon's empty eyes stare at nothing, wide and accusatory. Or maybe he was just plain surprised.
Laughter bubbles up through my parched throat, unbidden. I giggle as the guards clamp irons around my wrists, carry me across the sea of blood and sweat. It doesn't matter. None of it mattered. Nothing we do will ever matter. I wonder what the Augur is thinking now. I wonder if he's turned red as his tunic. The thought is laughable. I giggle harder, wheeze and pant and laugh some more.
Another group is waiting by the gates for their turn. I wonder if they'll die too. I wonder who will kill them. Maybe one of them will kill me. The other gladiators are already being led onto the sand. Just like the ram. Just like me. It's so funny I can hardly contain myself. I giggle harder, giggle so hard my ribs feel as though they will collapse, fracture into a thousand million pieces. The ram's horn rings through the arena, unheeding of the spectacle it heralds. Maybe it was once a sacrifice too, out there on the sands. The idea of it sends me into fresh peals, alone among the guards in the cool darkness. Sacrificed animals to signal the sacrifice of animals. I laugh and laugh and laugh.
And outside the crowd is cheering. Still they bay for more, still their appetite for death is not satiated. It never will be-- none of us will ever make it out of here alive, and nobody will care. I snort, gasping at the very idea of it. Funny, isn't it? The Plains will claim our souls; Our names will sink into oblivion; The Sands will swallow us whole;
And still the Games will begin anew.
Eumaeus had seen beggars before. He knew them by the slant of their shoulders, the hollow hunger in their eyes. He knew them by the silence that clung to them, by the way the world had already forgotten their names.
Winning 12th grade submission, 2024-2025 NJCL Creative Writing Contest
CREATIVE WRITING · Summer 2025 · Torch: U.S.
Scorching sand scalds my bloody knees, my constant companion. I can't catch my breath, gasping for air even as the two beside me cannot.
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