I must admit I feel uneasy, unsteady, not ready.
Am I really old enough to pass down such a decree?
Am I young enough to not know any better than to comply?
Berlin’s angel—I misjudged you, yet I was wise enough never to speak out against you. In return I received one of the best gifts I’ve ever known. Your love—a piece of heaven.
I keep that lesson I learned, along with my fine-tuned instincts, constantly in mind.
He doesn’t deserve to die.
I must admit, I am uneasy.
I am uneasy with how you treat him.
“But he’s horrible! The absolute worse! Did you know he—”
No I didn’t, show me the proof?
The arena of our youth, the winner crowned Prom-king; I am just a fighter, I am not. I am a lover instead, and for everyone who has ever loved me’s sake I hide it from the Piranhas. It is everything and nothing: the chasm between the gladiators and I.
It was the loneliness, not the blades, that used to lead me to the reaper’s hand.
“Oh no, please! We want to hear more”
No, this is a confession to the comfortable strangers who might never read this.
My closest friends—my love—are enemies to him. I do not feel any need to stop them when they glare at him, snarl at him. I do not feel any need to do anything but snuggle closer to their protective embrace.
I still feel horrible; I only remember this when I sleep.
“Paprika…you have always been too perfect for this.”
I do not want to like him.
I do not want to help him.
So I will stare at him from the sidelines.
This is not what weighs me so.
But we are all gladiators, and I have seen no proof—not of his damning character, fuck him, but of fatal crime.
The voices who whispered them, they are known for lying. Tongue as blade still cuts.
Cut—cut him down, justified but unjust.
Even then, that is fine. Words hurt one’s pride, I know, words can be cyanide, I know; but that is the context, not confession.
I am not ready to watch him die.
Because the way things are going, the punches and humiliation, my brother says he’ll be gone by next week.
“A good thing, Akka. He takes up too much air.”
The Angel smiles at me; I do not fault him or my love for what may happen.
My friends have never hit him. But they dream about it.
The whole arena dreams about it.
They want him gone—so a death penalty is upon his head.
And some of us like to play judge, jury and executioner, especially the last part. We all have smiled at the last part.
He’s going to be gone next week.
They are all watching for my vote.
Jokes on them, I’ve abstained since the day Berlin’s Angel proved me wrong, long before this happened.
Those who know ask, you dislike who he is.
My friends don’t blink an eye, sweet things never blame me. To them I’m always right.
“You’re perfect, Paprika. You are perfect.”
I don’t want to him bloody on the bathroom floor because of a crime drawn up from words—It’s not right! He—he’s still human!
My God he’s a child. Legal action has already whipped his back, what more do you want for vague accusations?
None of this makes sense, none of it!
Why weren’t the parents involved?
Why are there different versions of the same account?
Why—why, did she smile at him the very next day? Laugh at his poor oblivious soul’s jokes along with him when she thought no one was looking. I was looking, I saw—I saw.
I saw the confusion in his eyes, the shock, the denial, the grief.
“Oh, the tragedy,” I hear my brother in my mind,“the poor fucker got played!”
What are they—she—you hiding?!
You must be hiding something, don’t lie.
Secrets are good weapons in the arena—blunt force trauma; there would be no blood.
Angel, oh angel, you are so hopeful. But I don’t think I’ll make it out of the arena.
Oh don’t cry, sweet angel. We knew this would happen the moment the Snake flicked it’s tongue at my little tiger cub. Goodbye Angel, I wish you gave me a hug; they looked so warm from afar.
“You’re perfect, Paprika. You are perfect.”
It is the essence of me, the term, not the trait. The goal, not this fate.
Because of it, I refuse to open Pandora’s box.
So the Snake was sent instead.
He was the start, and he’s dead.
My friends are far away and safe.
And my other half knows how to hide away from this place.
I can’t trust anymore—it is dangerous.
I am uneasy, unsteady, will never be ready. Because of all of that I am unsure, that is my Achilles’ heel. Nipped before it could blossom, my sense of self—my greatest strength—has shattered, all the gladiators know it. For I no longer hide my poetry.
The eyes are on my back, her eyes are on my back, your eyes on my text. I’m next. He may have been bad, I may be good. He may have been corrupt, and I have never been cruel.
But he was in line to be king, and now that falls to me.
