Ichor

The First Chapter

Question of the Chapter: How did you find this story?

Song of the Chapter: Start a War by Valerie Broussard (ft. Klergy)

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My storyteller's ethereal male voice of blanketed obscurity skitters across my skin and whispers four life defying words. "It's time to awaken."

I try to fight my fate, but the Fates laugh at my futile efforts. I try to punch, kick, and bite the creeping sensation of consciousness torturously plucking me from the bliss of my slumber, but I am unsuccessful. Defeat clamors against my bones as I awaken, unable to escape today and all the macabre that follows suit.

Five hundred years ago, the gods of Mt. Olympus despoiled a once peaceful Earth. Where there was once human ignorance and fearless freedom, is now debris upon the gods' feet. Shackles tighten around my races' wrists, replacing the elation that once colored our world with the achromic cries of the enslaved.

Now, our world is of serfdom, sadness, and scarifications.

Every summer solstice, whoever is unfortunate enough to turn eighteen, is taken away from the prison we've lived in our entire lives. Us humans, who have just reached adulthood without a kiss of the outside air, are placed into an arena. Within this arena, the gods responsible for world enslavement vie for our minds, souls, and bodies in a fight of grotesque cruelty.

Devoid of choice throughout our lives, we are sold to the gods. Once made property by the god, they will brutalize us with scarification marks, which they burn into our flesh. These immortal monsters, who rule this world, give us a name that goes with these scars. We are no longer human beings when we are given our marking and name; we are property. Our prison shifts from one behind bars to one within our captors' grasp.

The scar the immortals give us is as close to a name that this barbarous world will ever gift us with; otherwise, we are nameless, disposable humans within the jail cells. Until we are a god's property through blood and fear, we do not exist and are inconsequential. By law, while we grow up and learn to fear our fate, we are forbidden from any identification that'll individualize us. No names, however temporary, are allowed. We are only identified as boy or girl.

Yet, I believe not existing is a grander alternative than becoming a monster's gained prize.

Each year, friends of mine who I grew up beside were taken from the prison and brought into the arena. Once sold, they are to suffer a fate worse than the Underworld. The moment that Lady Hecate pulls them from their cells and propels them into the arena, I am never to see them again.

Today is my egregious day.

As the immortals that govern this prison turn on the lights, I embrace my begrudged truth. I wish I can avoid the inescapable. That I could fall into a splendid sleep, never waking but always drifting. But my story does not continue in a dream world—it strides towards madness.

It gravitates towards the gods.

Two months ago, I turned eighteen. That morning, I awoke to the most volatile storm in existence. The clouds covered the sky in a dark gray hue, while malicious jolts of lightning struck the ground. The thunder yelled, shaking the prison walls with vengeance, and this unforgiving storm did not subside until the next day.

It was then I knew that my eighteenth birthday would bring catastrophic horrors.

Every single day of my life, I have spent inside this prison cell. From sun rise until the inevitable dusk, I'm surrounded by friends as malnourished as me. My feet are as cowardice as my heart, fearful to venture any farther than the showers that we're allowed to use once a month. Throughout my eighteen years, there have been a brazen dozen who tried to escape, and their failed attempts echo the halls with whispers of brutalized torment. The magnitude of their torture was delivered to frightened children as bedtime stories.