Peter McFeely

The space was dark. He could sense others, smell his own sweat mix with theirs. It added further moisture to air which was already wet with anticipation. Tight wooden walls constricted movements. He tried a leg. Restrained. The fraying rope cut roughly into his skin. A reactive snort of pain drew a sharp thrust to his ribs from one of the captors. He held his breath, fearful that any exhalation would draw further rebuke. Suddenly the men grabbed him. Shouts and orders in a language with which he was familiar but couldn’t understand. The coldness of the metal stung but its temperature was quickly forgotten as he felt the coil of barbs pressing into his flesh one by one. He thrashed wildly, desperate to remove the penetrating steel. The men stepped back as far as the walls would allow. The fragments of extra space seemed to press the barbs further into his body. They inhaled collectively but the metal did not retract as their lungs filled. He roared and bucked. The tethers held firm. He could feel the men breath out, relax. As their laughter subsided he became aware of the distant rumbling noise for the first time. A deep drone, swelling and sharply rising, dropping back to an ominous roll. Only now was he scared.

The thick panel in front of him disappeared and sun rushed into the space, filling the knots of the planks which flanked him. He squinted. The light burnt his eyes. He couldn’t see that the men were gone but their scent was weaker. He pulled a leg. The ropes had been cut. Instinctively, he dashed for the light. The explosion of noise bore into his ears. Assaulted both aurally and visually, it was moments before he once more felt the barbs pinch his waist. Again, he lashed in vain, trying to free himself. The explosion climbed further. He ran. Careering wildly, unable to recapture his senses. Gradually his sight returned. He saw sand beneath his feet, all around he was surrounded by a high wall. Behind it, thousands of faces banked steeply toward the cobalt oval which sat atop his life like the lid on a biscuit tin. In the light, the air was heavier, weighed down not only by sweat and anticipation but by venom. Among the patchwork he picked out snarled teeth and crushed eyes. He felt the specks of saliva cast toward him. Distracted, he failed to pay heed to the new smells which crept up on him. Faces appeared closer. Dancing in and out of view. Taunts and goads. He felt thrusts in his ribs. Sharp nicks like the stings of a giant mosquito. All the time, he ran and thrashed. But there was no way out. The fervour encircled him. He prayed for a corner to back into but none existed.

He pawed at the ground. The fine soil thickened and darkened. A rich liquid flowed in a slow stream, like the aftermath of a summer storm, and pooled below him. He glanced over his shoulder. The barbs still cut, but not deep enough to generate this amount of blood. More points of pain. He could see poles thrust in his back. Swaying with his movements. Out of reach. He suffered quietly, eyes wet. The noise had slipped to a low yet steady hum. A vibrating honk-honk-honk came from every side to which he turned. He could feel the air shake. The bank of faces lifted by a couple of feet. A deafening roar. He walked backwards in circles. Just in time to see the man emerge. Alone, a fury of colours whirling above his head and round his body. The man pranced, high knees and thrust toes, much like the cockerels he had seen before they took him to the dark. The barbs and poles were pushed deeper by the air, sodden now. With danger.

The man approached. Flicked steps. He was sure that he was being mocked. The colours angered him. The roars angered him. The evil in their faces angered him. Feeling his own blood under his feet infuriated him. He realised he had to fight. While the man played to the rising faces, he rushed. Head down, shoulders tensed. The man pirouetted. He felt the colour stroke his face as he slipped and skidded past the man. The noise peaked. Laughter and roars. His eyes narrowed as he pushed and pulled the soil through his toes, readying himself to attack the simpering whirlwind. He knew there was no other end to this. Neither the man nor his supporters would retreat and leave him. Victory or death were the only options. Bigger and stronger, he knew he stood a chance if he could get close. Another rush, another pirouette, another graceless tumble through the dirt. The evasion was repeated several times. Then he got close. Heard silk tear as he grabbed at the man. His heart rate rose – elation – before he felt the heat between his shoulder blades. A searing pain. The barbs and poles faded from feeling. He howled. The faces howled back.

He was stronger than they realised, but he was tired. The man, the men, had been punishing him for a long time now. The hum had dropped and the sea of faces thinned. Still, he heard isolated shrieks rise. The same venom came in the peaks, though he sensed a change in the air. Pity had crept into the atmosphere, like a tramp sneaking into a bar for warmth on a cold winter’s night. Tolerated by some, ignored by all. But there nonetheless and necessary to remove from the premises. The overwhelming feeling in the arena was of finality. The air told him the end approached. The man paraded for the faces. He saw the glint of the blade as it was drawn from beneath the colours and held aloft. Now or never. He summoned his remaining strength and charged. He knew the cries were warnings, but they were too late, the man having lost himself in his own arrogance and self-adulation long enough to forget he had initiated a fight-to-the-death with an opponent not yet dead.

He felt the rip.

Fabric then flesh and finally bone.

He thrust deeper and more wildly, until he felt the rips again. The gasps of the faces swallowed the screams of the man. He tossed him to the soil and rutted him as he lay motionless. The man’s colours turned scarlet and brown. He felt the pasty earth flick up as he cut the man and threw him again. The man landed feet away with a clunk. He could smell the death. But still he walked, through the newly fallen puddles, and prodded him. It was over. The air emptied, leaving only a residue of regret and the dampness of tears. Among the sobs he was sure he heard a handful of cheers. Calls of a word he had heard used to address him in the past. Within a second they were swallowed by unbridled anger. The faces rained down cartons and cups alongside their insults. He flinched as the cardboard bounced of his wounds. A door opened. A black square in the ring. This time he ran to the darkness.

Once more he could see nothing, relying on his ears and nose for clues of his surroundings. He waited. For someone to extract the poles. Remove the barbs. Apply salve to his sores and wash the blood from his matted skin. He had been forced to fight. He did as they asked. Now they would help. He heard the voices approaching. Trepidatiously. The air now held fear. The men spoke in hushed tones, confused and arguing. He waited, breathing heavily. He felt the gates slide into place and he was boxed in on all sides. A man clambered above him. The poles bounced. He tensed for the withdrawal only to feel them twisted and pushed deeper. He made to rise but crashed into the confines which had shrunk around him. He tried to look but couldn’t move. No, he thought, this can’t be the way.

He felt the blades plunge. Felt his knees buckle. He screamed. Somewhere, he heard his mother scream. His howls rebounded from the walls and echoed through the underground chamber of the now silent and empty arena. He felt the soil under his chin. He cried and felt his tears mix with the blood which ran over his face. He felt the blade withdraw and the hand tug his ear. He heard the whisper.

Man Killer.

He closed his eyes as the knife cut and the world turned black.