The old man sits on his porch, pen in hand, and a pile of paper on his lap. The story of his glory days in the arena was finally going to be told.
I was in my twenties and going into my first gladiator fight i hadn't entered the arena yet but the sound of my heart pounded in rhythm echoed in my ears, and my lungs were pumping out more air than i could take in. I was a lonely soldier in an arena full of thousands. I step into the arena to find my opponent standing, waiting, and smiling a grin bigger than normal. We battle for what seemed like hours. Towards the end i had been thrown across the arena the sweat was dripping from my face, my vision obscured by exhaustion, and the vibration of every single muscle told me to stay on the ground, to end it now. I took a moment to look at the mysterious stranger, which the crowd kept calling him, he urged me on, to try to kill, to humiliate myself, but i couldn't let him take my pride. I don't remember what happened after that but i do know that I am alive now and still have my pride intact.
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