Loss of Soul

by Falene McKenna

Prologue

We open our eyes to a familiar setting: a dark corridor spreading out to infinity unknown in front of us
and a cold metal door directly behind us. We know this unending corridor so well that we are no
longer afraid of the nothingness it eludes, nor are we shocked as the door hisses open to reveal a large
room, shaped to the exact specifications of the Colosseum of Rome. In fact, they resemble each other
so much so that the only way to tell that this area is not the Roman Colosseum is that this death trap is
made entirely out of cold, hard metal.
We become aware of a well-used metal paddle, as it is thrust upon us and we are given the tiniest of
shoves to indicate we should enter. The shove was light simply because we had already taken a step,
entering the pit. This is routine for us; it is now natural. Three of our large, strutting steps take us to
our destination, eight feet away from our opponent and four feet away from the ‘ball’ in the middle.
It is an abnormal ball in almost every aspect of its existence. We started to call it the ‘intimate kiss’ the
day we entered the Colosseum. Unfortunately, for us and for our adversaries, the ball does exactly
what our nick-name describes, and with deadly force. One touch from that thing and you would be
dead. It has form similar to that of the end of a medieval mace, at the tips of each pointed section there
is a tiny sensor that tracks a certain gene coded into a competitor’s DNA. Coloured brilliant silver that
shines ocean blue, one could not hope to accurately guess at how much blood had flowed upon this
device.
The holographic referee appears in the pit. To each contestant it appears in a different form, showing
the audience a brief glimpse into our psyche; ours appears in the form of a small brunette with glowing
green eyes that could rip the soul from one’s body. We do not understand why the referee takes that
specific form in our eyes, we will never know, nor do we want to. The hologram is not programmed
for speech; however, we understand its nods and gestures as it makes it perfectly clear that we are
required to start our deadly game.
The game commences as the ball rises from the ground. We watch it carefully, evaluating where it
would go, toward the opponent or us. This is the most crucial part of the game. If one does not hit the
‘kiss’ at the beginning, the pain of one’s death is amplified tenfold. It moves! The game has
begun. The calm detachment that we now feel is the result of participating in these pathetic excuses
for “honour” battles. We no longer feel fear, or anxiety, and we are not sadistic enough to feel pleasure
from the murder of others. A rush of adrenaline gives us an advantage over the opponent, who
obviously has less experience than us but is old enough to know caution when playing against us.
We run faster than any Olympic champion ever could. Simply hitting the ball back towards the
opponent is the goal for the first five strikes, and then our game starts. We always startle our
adversaries with our speed and this challenger is no exception. They barely make it in time to return
the ball, hesitating from the shock of our speed and our reaction to this monstrous game.
We have been here so long that we no longer concentrate on the physical aspects of this game but
rather on the psychological ones. We have learned that the best way to win over our opponents is to
smile and laugh while playing this game. It disorientates the foe, leaving us with a clear win. Knowing
this, we give the audience in the seats of the Colosseum a show.
One has to wonder how the audience is able see this game or even how they can enter the
Colosseum. They are worm-like creatures with numerous levels of sharp teeth surrounding a circular
area that can only be seen as a mouth opening. Other than their teeth and mouth opening they have
very little else to offer; their only other feature is their coarse iron skin. They have no tongues, no eyes,
and no ears. In fact, the only sights that we are ever able to see are their bodies and teeth; however
their bloodlust is so tangible that it could be the power fuelling the ball.
Whoops! The opponent makes a grave mistake; they lose focus! If we cared to, we would now laugh
at their foolishness, and then cry for their impending demise. How could a challenger who has been
here for so little a time dare to lose their concentration?! We smash the ball back to the opponent. Our
pitiable comrade will never make another mistake again in their abruptly abridged life. As we
foretold, they miss the ball. A sudden and uncontrollable panic fills the enemy’s eyes as they realize
what was about to happen. They try to run; an extremely futile gesture for two major reasons. The first
of the two reasons being that the opponent has absolutely nowhere to run to. The second being that the
ball has already locked onto his DNA patterns and now will not leave him until he dies; because their
paddle did not touch the ball thus it could not eliminate their patterns so the ball could refocus on us.
The paddles have the DNA patterns of the other players so that when the paddles hit the ‘intimate kiss’
they force the sensors at the tips of the ball to find the rest of the DNA, wherever it may be.
We believe that if you are able touch the paddle to ball - even if you have just missed - before it kills
you, you would be safe. The ‘kiss’ would reprogram itself and attack the contender whose DNA was
just recently entered into its operating system. It is only a desperate theory. We have never had an
opportunity to test it out and we are the only ones who would dream up such an option. Unfortunately
for the opponent, this opponent thinks like all the others and their patterns are predictable.
The ‘Intimate Kiss’ strikes, throwing the contender across the pit so fast that only those with
exceedingly capable eyes, like our own, can see the move to a new place, slumped against the wall to
our right. The opponent’s eyes are wide enough that they could pop out, and the adversary’s pallor
seems to lighten with every passing second. Muscular arms are made more pronounced as life’s blood
flows over them to pool at the enemy’s fingertips. One crumpled leg is bent to the front but the knee of
the other is turned inwards in an unnatural position.
This contender has no luck, for they are still alive, still suffering. For them, it will all be over
soon. Nevertheless, the stupid opponent just continues to struggle on. The adversary stumbles over to
their paddle, for reasons unbeknownst to us, and cries. They cry for a time that they can never go back
to and for a world lost to them forever. We wonder if we will ever cry as our challengers do. We
cannot remember the world that they so yearn for nor do we care that we cannot recall memories of
any place other than this.
The routine that drives us settles in as, within scant seconds, the opponent lets out a last strangled
gurgle and dies. Impressive; this foe went down faster than all the previous ones. Are we improving
or are they simply becoming worse?
We raise our paddle and our supporters, “Kazak the Warrior” supporters, cheer for us. We have just
beaten our competitor and now our fans will have a victory feast on the meat of the fallen. We stride
across the pit to the automatic door in the wall adjacent to us. It opens with a quick and almost silent
hiss when we are six feet away. Four feet from the door we scoop up the lifeless corpse of our pathetic
challenger, hold him high above our head and wordlessly roar with the volume of a banshee’s cry
while she stalks her prey. We then continue toward the door with the body slung over our shoulders,
fireman style.
The opponent is unusually light, bringing us to the conclusion that it was female and was more
experienced then we had first believed. After being part of this game one tends to adjust to the low
force of gravity, and then develops lean, sinewy muscles –the type that professional runners have. It is
the easier to move around the pit if one is less bulky.
All this takes but a millisecond to deduce and think upon; thus, by the time our foot hits the ground
while we step toward the door, our mind has become almost completely void of thoughts. We are
vaguely aware of the crowd’s continuous cheers, the hiss of the door as it closes and the echo of our
feet upon the metallic floor in the silence of the never ending hallway. On each side of the hallway, at
regulated intervals, there are numerous doors leading to numerous rooms. At the twentieth door, on
the left side, we turn and open the door.
We enter a sterile operating room, now filled with the overpowering sent of rust and salt. When we
first entered this room we could not tell the two flavours apart, all we could smell was blood. A grim,
but detached, work ethic sweeps over us like a gentle yet firm wave. We know what to do.
We efficiently place the corpse on a rectangular metal slab in the centre of the room and remove our
instruments from the cabinets that house them. The instruments vary in size and shape. Our favourite
one is ten inches long, curves after six inches, and has a serrated inside edge along the curve. This
instrument is used to cut the tendons adjoining pieces of the organs.
The skin peels away from the bones as if it had never had a claim on the body of its previous
owner. Beneath its hide, the organs lay crammed between bone and muscle. The organs are warm to
the touch and smell like meat left on a counter for many days. The squeamish feeling that we once had
over touching the opponents’ organs left after the fiftieth time of removing them. Feeling leaves you
after being in this nightmare for too long.
This time alone is dull. We have no one to talk to, nothing to think about, and nothing to concentrate
on. Therefore, we have discussions with our self. We quiz ourselves on what organs we are removing,
what their jobs were, etc. It wasn’t until recently that we became aware and started to answer. Now,
these silences and alone times are more bearable.
After placing the organs and muscles into their allotted octagonal boxes, and sending them through the
transporters to wherever they go, a haze fills every corner of our mind. We become dizzy, and
unfocused. We know that when we reawaken we will be back, in the corridor facing the door, waiting
for another opponent. It is a fact which we accepted three years ago, every night we come back and
every night the haze fills our mind. We feel no joy or sorrow. Our calm detachment lasts from
beginning to end. However, questions fill our head, the loudest of which asks, “when will this
nightmare leave and we can go home?” No answer is given; no remembrance of feeling for our home
is left, and there is no one to know we are trapped. For most, these thought evoke sadness; however,
for us, nothing. We feel nothing. We are nothing.
We know that what we feel is labelled as dissociative identity disorder and that it is caused by
overwhelming stress. However, if that is true we have no recollection of ever feeling stress. We do
not even care that it is a disorder.
Blackness fills our head and we close our eyes. This is enough for one night.