Blood. Sweat. Tears. 'They' tell me those are the only things I have left. 'They' say I have nothing to live for. 'They' say I will die in this hell hole. 'They' are wrong. My name is Calleiope, I am a survivor, and this is my story.
Should I start from the beginning? I was born. I was raised. I was loved. Or maybe I should begin from my birth in the arena. Yes…That seems like the best place to start. Who I was is irrelevant. Who I became is who I am. They threw me into the arena, battered and bruised. I remember hearing the loud snap of my leg but unable to feel the pain. I picked myself up from the wet and blood-stained filth and stared into the depths of my salvation. His eyes were red, the color of fresh blood, and he carried with him the look of a man who wouldn't lose. I gathered some crude object in my hand and struggled to rise. He wasted no time and advanced on me. He was slow but not as slow as me. No sooner had I dragged my body up did he punch me in the face and back to ground. Screams could be heard and through the blur of my blood, sweat and tears, I saw him cheering with the crowd. He rose his hands far into the air and gave the crowds a toothy grin. They seemed happy I was dieing, urging him to finish me off. He kicked me in the gut and I felt the taste of blood rising up in my throat and dribbling down my chin. He stole a look at my face into my big green eyes and laughed. It was the worst noise I ever heard in my life. I can't remember anything else except his laughter.
He ripped my dirty clothes from my body and lazily picked me up. My broken leg just hung there with the bone clearly visible and snapped in two. He threw me onto my stomach but I couldn't feel the pain or the humiliation. I just stared at the dirt with a glossy look covering my eyes. When he entered me I was jolted from my stupor and back into reality. Both of his hands were around my neck, holding me in place. I think I struggled, I can't remember. Eventually he turned me on my back and plunged himself in the most sacred part of me. I…There are no words for his heinous act, for the pain that accompanied it. I remember screaming and convulsing, and even bile regurgitated into my mouth. I thought I was going to die. I wished it. I tried to grab at anything but something else was in My hands. I don't remember what it was or how it got there but I do remember mustering every ounce of strength I had and slamming the object into his face. He ceased his thrusts immediately and backed away, clutching his face. His previous laughter was replaced by grunts and groans and when I looked at him, chunks of his face were missing.
I challenged my bloody body to rise through the pain and limped towards him, object still in hand. With the possible taste of energy in my mouth, I tackled him and began to crush his face with my hands. Seconds turned into minutes, and only when I was clutching parts of his brains on my fingers did I fall to his side, victorious.
Days later, I awoke in a musty cell, where the only light came from the diminishing torches. A man was rubbing my lips with an ice cube when my eyes started to flutter. The cold droplets of liquid were refreshing and I wanted more. "Shh." He said to quiet my coughing. "Yer alive. We didn't think ye'd make it." He brought a clay cup to my lips for me to sip. I neglected to say anything, I mean what could I say? He stayed with me for hours, changing my dressings and urging me to speak. "They'll take everythin' from ye'. Only thin' ye' got left is yer blood, sweat and tears." I turned my back to him and cried silent tears. It was only when he rose to leave did I say anything. I gestured to my body, "This may have survived.." I pointed to my heart, "But I died." He nodded and left the room and I turned to my side to wallow in my own pity. I died….I…I died. "I DIED!"
My name is Calleiope, I am a survivor, and this is my story.