The Ring

I remember the feeling of a bag pulled over my head. It blocked most everything except the sun. I was pulled along to the ring with it shining down on me.

I’d seen the ring before, of course. A spacious place that could seat thousands. It would be full today, I knew that. A packed house, and all for me.

The sack itched. It rubbed against my face, and I wanted to scratch beneath, more than anything. My hands were tied behind my back, the rope binding them chafing the skin, rubbing it raw, still somehow less bothersome than that itch.

The one perk? It distracted from the smell some, which I could appreciate even then. The sack must have been used for grains or oats once-upon-a-when. That shouldn’t have been such a a terrible smell, and when I thought about it, it wasn’t so bad. Except that horrifying realization that I’m not with even a fresh, clean bag to be blinded by.

It shouldn’t have surprised me so. The type of men who took another’s shoes were not the type to consider something unused, especially not for the ring.

People called out when I entered. I remember that. Their shouts. They hated me, and I knew it, I knew how glad they were that I was here, imprisoned, how glad they were that the sand was hot beneath my cracked heels. That my face itched and I couldn’t scratch it.

That was okay. I hated them too, everyone gathered together that day. I loathed them their cheers, jeers, and sheep-like compliance. When the sack came off, I didn’t look at them, not from shame, but as an act of rebellion, tiny and insignificant, but mine.

I was pushed toward the center. People closest threw thing at me; some had rocks, but most were rotted fruit. The smell and the mess mattered most, because I was forced to stumble through it, trying to keep balance, if not dignity, in that mold-ridden sticky, road to hell.

I forgot all about it soon, forgot I was nauseated by the way a particular piece had squished up between my toes — I forgot because I was now forced to my knees. The man who’d shoved me down wasn’t the one who’d shoved me in. This man wore his own bag, howncunaiferaye, but his was black, clean, and quality. I could see his eyes still, and I’d never encountered such coldness before. He should have felt remorse, or at least pity, but he did not. This was a job to him, nothing more. No, I was a job, nothing more. He spoke rough and low, a voice that must have scratched his throat on the way out, and his words were the standard offer.

It was my last time to be heard, and I could have said a thousand things, condemned them all. How I wanted to! To use my last few breaths to lecture and abuse. But somehow it was a prayer that came to me instead and I spat it out like poison.

The block was wooden. My head didn’t fit quite right, but what did that matter? A splinter broke off into the skin of my neck. I felt it, but not the pain. Too much adrenaline pumping through my veins, and I wished that I could have had that much energy before. How much I could have done with it!

Then the whistle of the axe. Oh, how I remember that. The sound it made as it came crashing down. That’s all. No pain, no suffering, no screams, no cries. Just the whistle of the ax, and darkness. Peace.

I remember how I died. I just don’t remember why.