The Colosseum

The Ripper

Kova

We were blindfolded on the way to the Colosseum. I don't think it was for any reason but to frighten us more than we already were. I didn't think it was possible, but every bump in the road rattled me to the core, as I'd mistake it as our vehicle stopping at its destination. I never want this car ride to end, I repeat in my head. I was too busy trying to keep a cool façade to even realize that this was my first time in a car. And probably my last.

At last, we came to a halt. Children near me whimpered, and the holding room we were trapped in smelled of urine. I just crossed my fingers and hoped I wasn't responsible for the scent. My heart thundered against my chest when the door opened and a new odor wafted inside the Humvee. It smells metallic...blood. Greasy foods can also be found in the wind – hotdogs with relish, hamburgers stacked with lettuce, and cheese fries laced with bacon. I only know of these luxurious foods from my longer ventures back at home, where I found myself at the borders of cities who were well off. Now, I'm at the heart of a high-profit city, held hostage to its money-maker facility.

Rough hands snatch my arm and wrench me out of the vehicle. The cuffs remain on my wrists, which have been rubbed raw by now. There must be a stubborn passenger, as a gruff voice demands, "Out! Now!" Shoes shuffle against gravel as someone rams into me. "Piece of shit. Be glad you're here instead of being taken as a slave for industry." Call me crazy, but I think I'd rather be a slave than fight for my life every time I'm selected to present myself to a blood-crazed audience. And for what? For funsies?

Chains rattle together as the weight of my wrists increase. "Let's get moving," the same gruff voice urges. My wrists are tugged forwards, and I take that as the sign to start walking. The more we walk, the louder the noises of clicks and fervent chatter meet my ears. Soon, I'm right at the core of the commotion, with unknown bodies bumping into me more frequently than I'd like. "Get back! You'll see them all sooner or later," our supposed keeper spits.

"Anyone, tell me: are you from poor or rich country?" a voice pipes up.

"Do any of you want to fight? Are any of you volunteers?" another inquires.

I can't bite the bitter, "Ha!" that escapes my mouth. I mean, who would really want to fight in the Colosseum? Who would willingly put themselves out here to be slain by some stranger? Why throw away your whole life to see how many people you can kill before you, yourself, are killed?

The feeling of swarms of people crowding around me makes me anxious. Questions are thrown left and right, with voices pushed right against my ears and metallic devices pressed against my lips. Questions about my name, age, and birthplace are thrown out like I'm here for a physical exam. More intimate questions are also voiced, such as if I'm prepared to die or literally stab others in the back to succeed. "I said get back!" the keeper reiterates. "You reporters will get the chance to ask your questions at the first event held by Mr. Deveraux."

Reporters? I thought only a few broadcasted the fights of the Colosseum. I never expected the amount of them to be so numerous. My stomach churns when I figure that this profession is so profitable because of how much the people in this wretched kingdom like the bloodshed. "And you," the husky voice seethes, the air from his mouth stabbing at my earlobe. He grabs a handful of my hair and jerks me to the side, earning feverish clicks of what must be cameras, snapping the shots. "I don't want a peep out of you or you can forget about the Colosseum: I'll end you right here and now."

"Promise?" I egg on, really preferring a swift death here than in the fighting ring.

The man growls before throwing my head forwards. "Keep it up, don't stop moving!"