2024 Short Story Contest: First Place

Redemption

     The air is thick with anticipation, heavy as the blade in my hand.

     Underneath my feet, the sand is hot, gritty. It clings to the sweat on my skin, turning my legs into a patchwork of dust and salt. The air is thick with the scent of blood and metal, an acrid tang that fills my lungs with every breath. I can hear the roar of the crowd above me, their voices a single, unrelenting demand—Fight, fight, fight. Always fight.

     But I don’t move. My hands, clenched into fists, remain at my sides. My opponent, a hulking brute of a man with arms like tree trunks and a face carved from granite, paces back and forth across the arena. His chest rises and falls with each deep breath, the muscles rippling beneath his scarred skin. He’s waiting for me, watching me with those cold, predatory eyes, expecting me to charge at him, to meet him in the middle of this blood-soaked stage.

     Still I don’t move.

     The sun beats down on us, relentless, unyielding. I feel its heat on the back of my neck, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of the stares that bore into me from all around. Thousands of eyes, all focused on me, all waiting for the moment when I finally give in and do what I was trained to do—what I was made to do.

     I’ve been in this arena more times than I can count. The fights blur together after a while, just a series of faces twisted in pain, bodies crumpling to the ground. It’s always the same—me or them, and I’ve always chosen me. I’ve always been the one to walk away, to raise my arms in victory as the crowd roars its approval.

     Not today.

     My opponent growls, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through the air between us. He takes a step closer, his knuckles cracking as he flexes his hands. His eyes narrow, and I can see the confusion there, the frustration. He’s used to fighters who come at him like animals, all fury and instinct. He’s used to ending them quickly, efficiently. But I’m not playing along, and it’s throwing him off.

     I can almost hear the thoughts running through his head: What’s wrong with this guy? Is he scared? Is he broken?

     Maybe I am. Maybe I’m both. But it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

     He lunges at me, finally losing patience. His massive body covers the distance between us in a heartbeat, and I see the gleam of metal as he swings a blade at my side. I don’t move, don’t react. The blade whistles through the air, stopping just short of my flesh as he pulls back at the last second, his eyes widening in surprise. He wasn’t expecting that—I wasn’t even defending myself.

     “What’s the matter with you?” he snarls, his voice thick with rage. He’s right in my face now, his breath hot and sour against my skin. I can feel the tension in his body, the barely restrained violence. “Fight me!”

     I meet his gaze, and for a moment, we’re locked there, two men standing on the edge of a precipice. I can see it in his eyes—the desire to hurt, to kill. It’s what drives him, what keeps him alive in this hellhole. And it’s what I’ve felt too, every time I’ve stepped into this arena. But not now. Not today.

     “I won’t,” I say, my voice quiet but firm. The words hang in the air between us, absurd in their simplicity.

     His eyes narrow, and I see the flicker of disbelief there. He thinks I’m bluffing, playing some kind of trick to throw him off. But I’m not. The blade in his hand trembles, just a fraction, and I know he’s confused, unsure of what to do. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. He’s supposed to beat me down, crush me under his boot, and walk away victorious. That’s the way of things here, in the arena.

     The crowd is growing restless. I can hear their voices rising, a tide of anger and frustration. They paid to see blood, to see death, and I’m denying them that. I can feel their rage building, like a storm gathering on the horizon. But I don’t care. I’m not here for them. I’m not here to be their entertainment anymore.

     The brute in front of me takes a step back, his face twisting in a snarl. “You coward,” he spits, his voice dripping with contempt. “You think you can just stand there and—” He cuts off, the words choking in his throat, as if he can’t even comprehend what I’m doing.

     But it’s not about cowardice. It’s about something deeper, something that’s been growing inside me for a long time now. Every time I’ve walked away from a fight, every time I’ve felt the blood of another man on my hands, I’ve felt a piece of myself slip away. And now there’s nothing left. Nothing but the empty shell of the man I used to be.

     So I won’t fight. Not today. Not ever again.

      The brute’s face contorts with rage, and I see him make his decision. He raises his blade again, this time with intent. He’s going to kill me. He has to, because if he doesn’t, this arena will chew him up and spit him out just like it’s done to every other man who’s shown weakness.

     I close my eyes, waiting for the end. There’s a strange sense of peace that washes over me, a calmness I haven’t felt in years. I’ve been fighting for so long, running on adrenaline and fear, that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to just… stop. To let go.

     But the blow doesn’t come.

     I open my eyes to see him standing there, frozen, the blade hovering just inches from my chest. His hand shakes, his face a mask of confusion and anger. He’s struggling, I can see it—the part of him that’s been conditioned to kill, to win at all costs, is fighting against something deeper, something more human.

     The crowd is screaming now, a roar of disapproval that shakes the very ground beneath us. But we stand there, locked in this moment, neither of us moving. And then, slowly, he lowers the blade.

     “You’re mad,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the cacophony. “You’ll die out here.”

     “Maybe,” I reply, my voice steady. “But not by your hand.”

     He looks at me for a long time, and in his eyes, I see something shift. The anger is still there, but it’s tempered now, tinged with something that might almost be respect. Or pity. I can’t tell which. But it doesn’t matter.

     With a snarl, he throws the blade to the ground. It clatters against the stone, the sound lost in the noise of the crowd. He turns and walks away, leaving me standing alone in the center of the arena. The crowd’s roar turns to a thunderous booing, but I don’t care. They can have their anger, their bloodlust. I’m done with it.

     The gates at the far end of the arena open, and I know it’s time for me to leave. I walk toward them, my steps slow but purposeful. The jeers and insults rain down on me, but they’re just noise now, meaningless. I’m walking away from this place, from the violence and the bloodshed, from the man I used to be.

     And for the first time in years, I feel free.

***

     Ahead, the path winds through a quiet grove of trees. I follow it, the canopy above filtering the sunlight into a gentle glow. The further I walk, the more distant the arena feels, as if it’s a nightmare that fades with the dawn. I reach a stream, the water clear and cool as it trickles over smooth stones. I kneel beside it, cupping my hands to drink. The water soothes my parched throat, washing away the last remnants of the battle that never was.

     I sit by the stream, watching the water flow, feeling the pull of something deeper inside me—a longing for peace, for a life I’ve almost forgotten. The sun sinks lower, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson. I know I can’t stay here forever, but for now, this is enough. For now, this is peace.

     I sit by the stream, watching the water flow. The sun dips low, casting the world in gold. I look up at the sky, the first stars appearing, and speak softly. “Maker, thank you for getting me through the fire. Help me find a new way, something better than what I’ve known.”

     I pause, the breeze brushing against my face. “Give me strength to move on. I don’t know what’s next, or how long I’ll spin around this earth, but I trust you’ll guide me.”

     The wind whispers through the trees. In the silence, I hear the Maker’s call, and I follow, unafraid.

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About the Author:

  I'm Ava, a young author, Christian, homeschooler, PK, and lover of wolves who tends to reread the books I come across at least twice. I write primarily fantasy and science fiction and have been writing as long as I can remember. 

    Writing became something more than a hobby when I realized the struggle of trying to find truly good stories among the rest. Since then, I've written multiple stories, helped edit multiple works from budding writers, and worked to improve my writing and create stories that someone might just want to read about. 

    I live in a small town in Illinois with my parents and little (but only slightly younger) brother, where the sunsets are vibrant and the wind is harsh. When I'm not writing, I enjoy reading, playing my guitar, dreaming up new worlds, helping out at my church, and being with friends and family. Get in contact with me by subscribing to my newsletter, emailing murbargerava@gmail.com, or visiting my website.

Website: AvaMurbargerAuthor | Fiction

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