I can’t… This world makes me sick, every second is agonising.

  A dilapidated statue of a man scaled the stairs up a colosseum, his hair long and greasy, nails chipped and grimy. His face wore nothing but emptiness, his fish eyes matched to his downcast expression.

  The trek to the top stopped when the heads of people slowly grew visible. Men, women and children in awe of such a magnificently brutal spectacle that ethics could no longer rationalize.

  At the top of the climb was insanity, unadulterated whimsy, a generous king stood at the top platform delivering ecstasy to those who tuned in. Yet the man who encroached on the show was sick to his stomach at their entertainment.

  On the ground of the arena was a little hare, a child who was led like a dumb bunny to the show-turned slaughterhouse. Her legs were reduced to stubs before she was discarded into a lion’s den. She let out a squeal, trying to dart away from the predator.

  She aimed to crawl away, red lines traced their way across the dirt. Yet it wasn’t enough. It honestly never would have been. As the corpses of similar unfortunate souls around her told the story of. None of them had even let themselves be backed into a wall before they were devoured. They had simply given up. Despite being in a gladiator arena, as homage to the sick joke, they weren’t even given weapons.

  Death was the only release left for the girl. Her blood red paint was used to complete a red piece. Any remnants of color besides that were carefully picked off her bones. The beast was vulgarly thorough in its consumption.

  Guess this world’s really come to its end… a real pain in the ass.

  The potential of this world’s survival had just been made clear. The most prosperous kingdom would soon fall due to its own sadistic wrath. Yet the crowd cheered in uproar, the kid was scattered across the arena floor, leaving a limp husk in the center.

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  The man leaped from the top, down into the arena, past the turning heads of spectators. He looked down over the skull of the lion before skewering it in a flash of steel. With the blood now at his feet, he gently reached down to cradle the little rabbit who would be hunted for sport.

  Once blue eyes were replaced with an unreadable, colorless stare, the man covered her face. I shouldn’t make excuses, I let her die… Ha, what a hilarious joke! Have I given up on everything? Did the calamity even have meaning? After so much time passed, how do I know this journey wasn’t all full of shit? Just a play, maybe bunnies are hopping over the edges of the walls of the arena, yearning for a peep of my own shitty play? Watching not my escape from a lion’s jaws, but my mental unravelling.

  These people, what place does such mindless slaughter have in performance? If I want to see the world’s story through… certainly not when these people exist within it. The man channels a quiet, soft energy. It is only then that the audience’s jovial expressions fix themselves.

  Guards come swarming into the arena, women shield their children, men flee and those unfortunate enough are trampled in the crowd crush of evacuation. Yet it was all meaningless, just like the torment they had indulged.

  The man’s hand was raised towards the surreal painted facade of a sky, looking around at the actors and their stained makeup, he was redoing the script.

  The man’s hand crackles with power, a signal sent up to the sun, which grew bigger and bigger in the sky. The ball of heat’s details grew into a vivid impression made on the surrounding world.

  The pudgy host of the event was the first to notice. All the fat and hair on his body was quick to light up in flames. The ball of energy was precise despite its size, people were being incinerated who cowered in the shade, those in the sun had already given up and the once prideful host had the worst of it. Remnants of his form dangled from the top of the arena.

  The light of the sun was then snuffed out, a mere snap of the man’s fingers to signal it did its job. The rest was on the man.

  This world, it’ll all just regress anyway… a second spent to salvage this reality is a second wasted. The stage needs to be set for him to arrive, the theater’s curtains shall open yet again. How curious that happens, since those same curtains never close.