Malevolence swirled in the air; it coated my skin like an oily residue of evil. It drew me deeper in, preying on the hatred and anger I harbored for years, and like a fire raging out of control, it consumed me on the inside. My eyes boiled, my breath deepened, my chest swelled and my heart beat loudly in my ears. My hand gripped the handle of the sword, fingers flexing reflexively on the leather-covered grip.
I relished in the weight, feeling the heaviness of my weapon of warfare, knowing that it hungered for battle just as much as I did. I hunched down, my legs swelling with power as I prepared to launch myself into the fray, to become one with the dance of death and to unleash the destruction that bound up inside of me.
I stared across the gravel pit at my opponent. My victim. His poor pathetic excuse for a life would easily enough be snuffed out as my blade drank deeply from his corpse.
The cheers of the crowd surged through me, my name dripping off their lips like fresh wine. Their applause is my spoils. Their chants my battle cry. They think it is for them, and only them, that I raise my blade and strike. All for the glory of battle. All for the roar of the crowd. All for… them.
Pathetic fools. Vicariously living through the victory of others. Sitting in their seats, giving accolades for another’s performance thinking they had anything to do with it. This is my blade, this is my body, this is my blood. I live on the edge of death while you sit safe in your seats. I know the value of the lives I take. You only know the value of admission.
As I rush across the field, my body and blade as one, I strike once, batting his defense away. I kick him in the gut, and as he doubles over, I bring the pommel down on the back of his head, flattening him to the ground. All too easy. And as he lies on the floor, the crowd grows louder. As I raise my blade, their volume increases. They chant for his death, only wanting to see their money’s worth.
I swing the blade down, the crowd quiets, as if all at once they draw a collective breath into their lungs in anticipation for the cheer to follow the killing blow.
Only, this victory is mine and not theirs. They know nothing of the sacrifice. They know nothing of the life I am about to take. They know nothing of me. They know nothing at all.
And in their ignorance, the silence grows. There is no cheer. There is no uproar. I have stolen them this victory as what should have been a deafening upheaval of clamorous noise turns into murmurs and hushed disbelief.
I have won this battle. My final victory. My legs give way as the strength in them leaves me. I fall to my knees as the blood rushes out of me. I feel my breath come in short gasps as the world starts to fade. And with the last of my strength, I pull my blade free from my chest, raise it into the air. Never again shall I raise my blade to the fools in this stadium. And as I collapse backwards, I look into the cerulean sky.
“I am free.”
Filed under: Flash Fiction Tagged: MMWM
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