The stench of spilled blood hit me like a ton of rock as the doors swung open. The once white sand has been darkened to a muddy brown. The blood of many men stained it this color.
I feel a jab from behind, and make my way into the arena. The sun glares fiercely upon my form and my eyes water as I look up to the people in the stands.
What I see disgusts me: thousands of people waiting to see bloodshed. I shake my head, and let my eyes fall to my feet. I shudder while looking at the red drenched sand.
I cannot understand this. I cannot understand how these people, men, women, even children, find such glee in witnessing the death of another person. How can they sit on the edge of their seats, watching intently as someone bleeds the last of their blood and dies? It is truly barbaric! I look at the blood of my fellow gladiators beneath my feet, and I know that when the men before me died, there was not a single grimace in this crowd. Not one of these people winced as the metal of swords sliced through flesh. But instead they cheer. They cheer and shout with glee at this mindless slaughter. I cannot understand it. Sitting underneath their awning, do they not see that we are people too? Maybe if they were in my place. A slave forced to fight. Forced to kill.
There are only three things in a gladiator's life. Death, blood, and victory. Every time a gladiator steps into the area, there are only those three things. No one knows what it is like to hold another person's life in your hands, and stop that life until you have done so. No one knows the sound of a person's strangled breathing past pain until you are the one who caused that pain. And no one can know how the sound of a person's last breath can haunt you until you cannot sleep from the guilt of killing so many.
This is the life of a gladiator. And these people do not value our lives at all. We are entertainment. They find this meaningless carnage amusing. They call themselves civilized. They live in this elaborate empire, and are supposedly cultured and sophisticated. Really they are nothing more than barbarians dressed in rich clothing. For how could a civilized person find such brutality amusing? I may be forced to kill a half a dozen men, but I find no joy in it. I do what I do to survive. Nothing more.
The creak of the opposing doors reaches my ears. I left my head to see my opponent step onto the arena floor. He raises his short sword and charges as I lower myself into a defensive stance. The time of blood has begun.