The Colossal

I didn’t like how beautiful a day it was for people to die. Beyond the capital’s limits, I imagined sunshine blanketing fields of birds and butterflies, little wings fluttering away without a clue in our broken and devastated world that people had made plans to watch their neighbors die today.

I wasn’t sure if I was walking myself or if the crowd was just pushing me along. I didn’t want to be there, so my mind let itself go back home to bake bread with my mother, while my feet continued their dirge. I thought of kneading dough as the surrounding people rushed to their seats.

For months now, I theorized that my boss hated me. It wasn’t just the investigative reporter or conspiracy theorist in me. I had hard evidence. He had now assigned me to cover the capital’s revival of gladiator fighting. 

Our current leader, now known as “The Ultimate,” has always been obsessed with the Roman Empire. As a child alleged possessed by divinity, he killed his twin brother but was never convicted of murder because he’s one of the Ulimate Family. Plus, he was the older brother, the one who would rule, so those of any importance or any influence in our capital didn’t care that he killed off the runt. Regarding his many public appearances, he has never been seen drinking anything other than blood or poison or a warrior’s sweat. The last time he wore something other than a purple toga was when he was one years old. For the first year of his reign, he spent millions on building projects, ordering thousands of unnecessary aqueducts to be built on top of our already established public water system. After spending even more millions, he has now opened “The Colossal:'' the unmovable, bullet-proof concrete and steel arena for our entertainment and others’ deaths.

I didn’t expect to feel deja vu when entering this theatre, but all of a sudden I was living in the past with the present. Besides the difference in material and the tripled size, this place was a carbon copy. The same numbered archways, classist sections, imperial skybox, and open roof. I was hypnotized by the world’s cruel juxtaposition with such a clear sky and bright sun serving as the backdrop to this cold revival of a long-unpracticed ritual.

I sat amongst all of the other women, just like how the infamous emperors and The Ultimate ordered it to be. None of the women around me looked like how I felt. They reminded me of the posh ladies before my time, the ones who watched and bet on horses. At least those horses didn’t die at those games.

A band of only drummers began their rumbling. Once I found them across the sea of spectators, I discovered that they were a band of enslaved drummers. Underneath those coverings, their faces must have been blistering in the sun. Their chain leashes were just short enough to keep them out of reach of the water before them. They never broke their rolling thunder. It was stirring in my spine and my chest. No weapons had been thrown yet, but I was already feeling sick.

The 240,000-strong crowd rose at once as if militarized. Applause and hollers and screams and whistles filled the entire empire, bursting past the capitol’s barriers. The Ultimate entered, and all were silent. Frozen. I couldn’t even hear the birds and butterflies in my mind. He sat. Then, we sat.

One man entered from the southmost archway, and another entered from the one opposite. They each had some sort of weapon in their hand. Between my distant seat and resistance to watch, I couldn’t make out any more details. They were just two breathing men, soon to be narrowed to one.

What I would give to never have had to hear the sounds of battle. What was the worst? The slicing of flesh or the cries of a wounded man? Closing my eyes only heightened my sense of hearing. The slicing became cleaner. The cries became louder. I never quite understood how those sounds broke through the crowd like a light cutting through darkness, so quick and unfiltered. I couldn’t help but wonder if The Ultimate had ordered the men to be mic’d. 

Then, the crowd’s roars doubled, and the slicing died out. I opened my eyes to peek. I saw one man looking to The Ultimate, as the other clutched to himself for his own life. I didn’t need to see what our leader communicated. We all knew what was coming next. This moment was just for him, no one else. 

I never thought I would have wanted to hear the man’s cries again, but at least by hearing them I know he was still living. When nothing followed the final slicing, we all understood, yet no moment of silence was taken. The crowd’s new cheers weren’t even for the fallen man. Here, praise was reserved for the living. No one was for him.

Within thirty minutes, four other bodies joined the first victim on the arena’s floor. The Ultimate didn’t want them cleaned up. Maybe he saw them as a hard day’s work, done from his seat on his shaded throne. The women continued to strain. The slaves continued to rumble. The fighters continued to die. All of this, and he continued to sip on blood.

I never choose this assignment. I never supported this revival. I never endorsed this Ultimate. But if I didn’t want to be slaughtered in front of thousands, I had to take it. I published my report. I walked freely through our streets. I continued on.

By the games’ conclusion, there were 23 dead bodies blanketing the arena’s floor. This beautiful day and all the beautiful days to come were no longer what they were meant to be. The sun on the fields was the same sun to bathe this decay. All of my beautiful days were now bent just off-center, to never be enjoyed again.