The Colosseum

Second Sweep

Kova

I thought I would have been safe – it's why I chose to continue living here. On the bank of a flash-flood-prone river, where the huts are crumbling and the people are starving and the livestock is turning rabid – I chose to stay because slowly dying like this was better than what I feared. Or, rather, what we all feared.

But everyone living in this pitiful village was wrong, like me. We weren't safe. And living under such an expansive empire, it seems nobody ever will be.

Years back, when I was 10, they came for this remote residence. The soldiers ravaged the cities, the capitals, and the middle-class unions, only to reach their violent branches to us. Our isolated position didn't spare us from their grasp, and our underdeveloped technology didn't contribute to our survival, either. The soldiers destroyed our food sources, burned our homes, and took everyone they could get their hands on.

Those taken included my parents, who I'm sure perished either on the journey to their final destination or at the hands of another hostage, fighting for their freedom. Where is this final destination I speak of? Centuries ago, people called it the Amphitheater. Later, the term developed into the title of the Colosseum – an ancient fighting ring where gladiators fought to the death. Now, the Colosseum has been reestablished under the orders of a new, extremely aggressive king who came into rule mere months ago.

His ruling style reflects the way he insists the games be played in the Colosseum, I've heard. As he claims unconquered land and takes over the established empires nearby, the games seem to get more gruesome. Some in the village even whispered of there being a blood quota to meet: a certain amount of suffering must be accomplished before a winner is announced.

Grotesquely enough, the upper middle-class and above don't seem to mind. In the homes and palaces of those who can afford it, the fighting is broadcast live on their televisions. Posters of winners and legends in the Colosseum are plastered on skyscrapers and in train stations, and a few even find their way here, half dissolved in the river I live on. It makes me want to vomit.

As dangerous as this world has become, I still stupidly thought I'd be okay for the rest of my days. After the soldiers under the new king tore their way through here like a hurricane, I was sure they had no reason to return. Yet, inexplicably, they found a reason.

And as I watch their speeding vehicles raise sand behind their tires, wavering in the visible heat, approaching at unbelievable speeds, I feel my heart drop to my stomach. When I was 10, I saw this same scene and my parents told me to run and never turn back. Because I was terrified and confused, I listened without question. I'm 18, now. Years of rebuilding a home, taking care of those who were too weak to feed themselves, and travelling miles each day for scraps of food have warped my body. I'm stronger, now.

Though as I survey the other villagers, uncertainty clouds my brain. I might be able to take on a soldier, but I don't think others can hold up as much. Most of those around my age were taken in the initial sweep. The only reason I survived was because of how far I sprinted away in such a small amount of time. I had never been more scared, and it was the fear that fueled my footsteps.

Now all that's left are the elderly, a few adults, and the toddler children birthed since he incident. Children, I remind myself. They need to run. The king seems to lean towards taking the youngest people he can get his hands on, this way he can raise them up to become bloodthirsty fighters. The last episode seems to have had a traumatically lasting effect on those of us who survived it, as parents from eight years ago have already parted from their children, who climb up sand dunes and charge down, seeking refuge in creating space between them and the approaching vehicles.