All These Dying Things

Part 5

Part 5

Bellamy thought his conscience, as he plunged the sword into the man’s stomach.

He knew it was far from clean, so bloody and murky now, he didn’t know if it ever had been. He’d grown so accustomed to the beckon of the arena, the way death sat on his shoulder, whispering things in his ear, caressing its bony fingers against the gleam of his sword. Silence seemed such a heavy burden to him now, when all alone in the dead of the night, he’d be left with nothing but his wandering thoughts, not distracted by the screaming masses that lined up in the arena.

And that’s when it grew dangerous, against the painted sky. When he was left to reflect on the troubles of his mortality, the souls that hammered against his fragile sanity, the souls he’d condemned to a darkness from which they could never return.

He felt guilt, of course. In his first days as a gladiator, it was all he could ever feel. Hot and thick and coarse, and burning through his lungs so. It tore him down, and hung against the gentle balance of his mind, swinging and pulling and laughing until all he could determine that the sky was above him and ground was below. He’d lost the sense of what was right and what was wrong, burned away by the sin that had turned into sobs. He held together the pieces of himself at night, weeping and bawling until the other gladiators threw their things at him, ordering him quiet.

He hadn’t been born into this life, and it’d never been one he’d thought he’d have to choose. His family had not been one of wealth, but their mother had managed to feed them each day, and before their father had left them, he’d taught Bellamy how to fight, how to protect himself. When their father had disappeared from their lives, wishing more than their meagre circumstances, their mother had fallen apart, barely managing to provide. Octavia was only small at the time, she couldn’t begin to understand, but Bellamy had saw the hole his father created with his absence, and despite his young age, worked to feed Octavia.

He didn’t have to work to love her, that came effortless.

As her children grew, Aurora grew ill, and on the day of Bellamy’s sixteenth birthday, she died, leaving her children alone in this cruel, cruel world. ‘Tavia had only been ten young years, didn’t grasp the subject of her mother falling asleep and never waking up. She had sobbed, as children do, but Bellamy had not, standing over his mother’s body and comforting his little sister until her whimpers subsided, as warriors big brothers do.

He’d been left with a small child, and a panic that slowly consumed him. His mother had not done much, but she had brought in the little wealth they needed to eat. Work was hard to find in Rome, and not a single job would work to make sure they both ate well.

And so, for 3 long, hard years, Bellamy went through job after job. Always juggling multiple at any time. He regretted that he could spend so little time with his sister, but his priority was that she ate. She grew happy still, not letting a single smile drop from her lips, her eyes lighting up whenever Bellamy was around long enough for them to spend some time together.

He often went hungry, grew weak and frail, in making sure that Octavia never did. She often showed visible concern, which he would laugh off, cheekbones sharp, skin stretched over bone.

On the day of his nineteenth birthday, he knew something had to be done. He was so thin now, even thinner than his thirteen year old little sister. He was always so tired, a hammering pounding against his skull. He’d starved for three years, before he knew he’d had to do something. He couldn’t take care of Octavia in this state.

And so he became a thief. It wasn’t easy at first, but he learned by watching. He’d sit and see how men would oh-so-carefully let a chunk of cheese fall into their pocket, knock over a display, walk away with bread rolls hidden away in their tunics.