The guardsman pointed at the way Martino was meant to go with his loose mask and pushed Pinocchio’s back to another hallway. Specks of dust descended from the walls as the little wooden boy got closer and closer to the source of the muffled roars. When fragments of light pierced a tattered cloth that the guardsman parted, the wooden boy’s hearing became engulfed with the fervorous cries of people that filled every seat in the stadium. For a moment, the boy was swept away by the passionate howls and had this instinctual urge to join in, but the cricket set him straight and urged him to look at what was actually transpiring.
Pinocchio hopped to the edge to peak over, but was too short to look over the edge. The guardsman quickly wrapped his hands under Pinocchio’s arms and gently lifted him to avoid scarring his body. He dragged a crate that was catching dust in the corner to his feet and placed the wooden boy on it so that he could finally see the blood that was spilled on the pinkish sands. A large man overpowered another and clobbered him into the sands to coat it with blood and guts. When the man raised his bloodied fists and walked around, the crowd bursted into blazing excitement. Instead of imitating the audience’s excitement, Pinocchio was struck with profound confusion.
“Why does he get praised for doing that while I get ridiculed and shamed?”
The guardsman’s jarringly blue eye landed on Pinocchio. His chest convulsed from a hearty chuckle that sounded like stones rattling in a metal box.
“Like I said before: you were at the wrong place at the wrong time. But here, you can finally be free and accept the darkness that is repressed by the blinding light above. Here, we can be the beasts that we all are and accept our primal roots. We can do what feels right instead of what’s said to be right.”
“But don’t we want to cherish life since it’s so short and brittle? Why would people want to snuff out such brittle beauty because of thoughtless joy and senseless violence?”
A silence forced its way into the mind of the guardsman, aback by Pinocchio’s unexpectedly profound insight.
“...What’s your name, wooden boy?”
“Pinocchio.”
“Wel, Pinocchio, I can’t really take you for a fool now, can I? You’ve obviously been built for perfection and beauty in mind. But deep down I know…”
The azure glow from the guardsman’s eye socket came closer to Pinocchio. A small blue fairy that was bound by a golden chain around its neck flew towards the wooden boy for a closer inspection. It repeated the words of the guardsman which added an ethereal tone to his gravelly voice.
“I know that your light is only there because of the suffering, the darkness of your maker. You were born from darkness, so you should just accept your roots and enjoy what curse you have to bear, as we all must do. All who own hearts are cursed with imperfection and you, Pinocchio, are no different.”
Those words bubbled inside Pinocchio's mind as he looked at the raw glee of that bloodied fighter. Something about that couldn’t seem to click in his head, which urged him to hop off of the crate he stood on and walk away.
“Pinocchio, wait! You’re going to miss the best part if you leave now! Aren’t you curious as to what Martino can do?” The guardsman said with an outstretched arm.
He twisted his wrist and aimed his palm towards the sky as an invitation for Pinocchio to observe the bloodied battle grounds once more. His smooth wooden hand held the guardsman's large rusty hand as it plucked him from the ground and plopped him on the crate again.
Martino’s large frame ducked under the entrance and entered into the arena. He carried an oversized mallet with him that had jarringly detailed carvings all over the head of it, but also the entire length of the handle. An overwhelming excitement bursted in the audience when they saw him lift that ornate hammer. The crowd was deaf to it, but Pinocchio swore that he heard a jungle of clicking and ticking in the large head of the hammer, as if it was a giant music box that swallowed the fervor of the people. Confusion was the first expression on the bloodstained face of the human gladiator. Curiosity moved his feet towards the foreign threat. Excitement erupted from the man as he launched himself towards Martino.
The large doll held the hammer in his two right hands and swung it over his head, rousing the sands around him. When the veil of sand in front of him flowed back into the ground, Martino charged towards the man and swung the mallet at an alarmingly quick speed. The mallet, charging towards the fighter like a storm-swept tree floating like a leaf, sent the fighter flying like a bullet to the wall of the arena, cracking it upon impact. The man regained his confusion with a mix of intense pain as he struggled to get back on his feet after being launched towards the arena wall.
Seeds of despair were sown into the gladiator as the roaring of the audience reached greater heights. Pinocchio became just as confused as the battered gladiator who was struggling to stand without wobbling.
“Wasn’t the crowd cheering for him earlier? Didn’t it mean that they liked him? Then why are they suddenly cheering for his demise?”
The rusty hinges on the corners of the guardsman’s lips creaked as they pulled up for an eerie smile.
“They don’t care about anything but their own self interest; to see carnage. They just cheer for whoever is the strongest, simple as that.”
“Some people seem to be upset though.” Pinocchio said, pointing at a person throwing their hat to the ground and reeling back with their head in their hands.
“Those are the people who placed bets; they put money on the bloodied and battered gladiator’s victory. If the gladiator loses, they lose their money.”
“Is losing money worse than the loss of a life? That’s just barbaric!” The cricket enlightened the doll about the laws of the world and tweaked Pinocchio’s internal wheels to enrich his moral compass.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“The gladiator chose this life. Gladiators live and die by the rules of the arena.”
“He’s in there because of a silly debt that isn’t his! Mangiafuoco harassed him to fork out the money after his father killed himself! He’s forced to fight and earn enough money to be free, you fool!”
Pinocchio grabs a hold of his wooden head in a poor attempt to silence the blaring cricket. A puff of air hissed out of the guardsman’s clenched teeth to form a scoff. He simply ignored the cricket,just like he’s been doing since the cricket got here, and continued watching the massacre.
A bright glow only borne from hope burst forth from the fighter’s eyes, smiling with red and white teeth. Blood sputtered out of his clenched teeth as he let out a laugh that echoed the absurdity sleeping beneath the sea of fantasy over everything. This laugh, emerging from the darkness, reached the light of Pinocchio’s heart. The broken gladiator’s voice echoed in his heart a seemingly infinite amount of times, only flowing into awareness to reveal a glimpse of the infinite laughter of whatever created him beyond the crazed carpenter. A sense of creatureliness invaded him as the primordial laugh ensued. From the man’s fiction-intoxicated glee alone, Pinocchio noticed a glimpse of his soul, inscribed with fighter’s full essence, his haecceity.
The bloody fighter’s memories transmigrated to shape Pinocchio’s thoughts, giving the doll a glimpse of a life he never led, but felt a profound part of. Every smile, every laugh, every cry and every howl of the man invaded the doll’s psyche, coloring his ghost with life’s richness.
In the eyes of the fighter and the soul of the man, Pinocchio saw him cradling a newborn child in his arms with a smile as big as his bloody one in the present. But it was purer, cleaner, far more blissful than the one stained in blood and despair-drenched hope. Visions of him tangling himself to another person exchanging love, weaving a tapestry of intimacy that wound the visceral to the cerebral drifted before the doll’s turquoise eyes. Every whisper of the heart they imparted to one another rippled in his ghost like a graceful dance, showing the doll the universe sheltered behind those bloodshot eyes. Even the bluest stars in his heavens, shimmering with the time he lost so many loved ones and was hurted by those he loved shone so beautifully that it was impossible to be swallowed up in the sadness. Every color in his starry soul blossomed in the dawn of death, burning his heavens in the color of sublimity.
With a lightning quick strike from the sky, the gladiator’s limbs bursted out of their sockets from the impact of the hammer. Squelches and the cracking of bones accompanied the melody that the head of the hammer sang to create a haunting sound. The hammer vanished with a few ticks and became a blanket to cover the pile of guts and bone shards that draped over the sands. Rivers of blood meandered between the pale sands that began to rumble with the excitement of the audience who feverishly cheered on Martino’s work. The large doll waved all four of his hands towards the people and turned his insectoid head, his dark eyes mirroring the fierceness of the crowd. To look into Martino’s eyes was like seeing visceral fire dance, or an inferno of flesh flickering in the abyss. As Pinocchio’s turquoise eyes met Martino’s abyssal gaze, the doll, for a moment, got swallowed up in the chaos of flesh and fire. A feeling of deep intimacy and the uncanny conquered him as the scent of past, present and future invaded his psyche. Martino exited as his cape, untouched by blood, glistened and reflected the bright cheer of the people before being engulfed by the darkness of the gate.
“Martino might house the soul of a human,” the cricket bitterly chirped, “but he has the spirit of a monster. An ugly, vile beast who gains joy from violence.”
“I can hear your bitter whispers, Mr. Nicchi.” The guardsman interjected.
“But you are very mistaken; Martino is the most human he can ever be. He has surpassed what it means to be human by surpassing what it means to be authentic to one's true nature. While others fear it, he embraces it and lets it flow freely without limitations, submitting wholly to himself. That, Mr. Nicchi, is the true essence of human authenticity. Humans are able to make an infinite amount of choices that dictate what kind of person they are; Martino simply picked choices that others would fear to pick and aligned himself with the bellicose nature he was born with. He follows his own path despite the opinions of the world because he knows deep down that he’s being more honest with himself than all those who lie to themselves and condemn him. It is a great virtue to live out one's authentic self to the fullest. And here, in the shadows, he can thrive and show his truth. Those who look inward can appreciate his art.”
His retort stewed in the silence between the two as they walked away from the arena and its din. Pinocchio was put back in his prison cell, as the guardsman was still unsure of what to do with him. He gave him one final glance with his blue eye before leaving him in the dimly lit cage. Pinocchio could’ve sworn that the fairy in his eye told him something only he could know, but he didn't hear what it was exactly. Just a feeling, frail and fading washed over him as he sat on the moldy bench with the cricket of conscience in his head. Discomforted by the knowledge that he’s sitting on wood while his outer body is also made of wood, he sat on the cold stone floor, leaning his head on the cold stone wall.
Images of the gladiator fluttered through his mind, showing every part of him he saw. From the brutal and bloodthirsty to the merry and melancholic, the nameless fighter sparkled like a prism in his mind, engulfing him in a kaleidoscope of thoughts. For all the thoughts and all the feelings, not one of them found a way to be expressed. In absentia of tears, Pinocchio gazed through the stone wall of his prison, moved by so much yet unable to be moved. All the tears he wished to shed crystallized in his ghost, decorating it in prismatic hoarfrost. Paralyzed by an excess of feeling and a beauty he can’t feel, for it would shatter his body to pieces, the doll nestled himself in the silence of it all whose many voices cradled his heart in a cosmic lullaby.
The lamplights stained the dungeon a deep orange, similar to the blaze of dawn and dusk in the nameless man’s eyes. Pinocchio saw its marmalade glow and smiled, slowly growing accustomed to the untamed flow of life which relentlessly fights itself to stay in motion. It was as though a microcosm of life unfolded before his eyes in that arena, pummeling him with the question as to how he can incorporate himself into such a flow without getting ripped by the waves.
A soft, comforting sound came from Celso in an attempt to ease the raging cogs whirring within the doll. As if caressing his turbulent heart, Pinocchio tried to unwind, relaxing his mind.
“I cannot promise you impossible things, but I will do my best to help you not lose that lovely little light you have. Remember one thing, little wooden boy: you are never alone.”
An abyssal laugh fluttered out of his wooden lips, like an echo of the fighter’s last laugh. In that sentiment, a thunderous contradiction boomed, as he only knew that it was like to feel alone thus far.
One day, he heard the heavy feet and rusty jingling of the guardsman whisper through the hallway of the dungeon. Even the faint ethereal whisper of the azure fairy within the guardsman eye pervaded the silence. The doll felt a strange kinship to the voice of the blue, a rosy redness swelling up in his mind as he heard its voice in more detail. The guardsman stood before the prison of the doll, hesitantly opening the gate as his mind was occupied with the fairy’s inquiries. With a definitive motion, he opened the rickety gate and knelt before the doll.
“Pinocchio, would you like to join a play? You would make a perfect actor! You will be dancing and gesticulating under the sunlight with a crowd of people cheering for you. What greater joy is there than to make others happy?” His voice stoked the glow of the blue eye to shine as bright as the moon in that abyssal gap of the mask.
The wooden boy was hesitant at first, but that hesitation was quickly consumed by his intrigue. He wanted to know what it was like to be loved instead of feared, so he let his wish drive him to accept his offer.