Dear Son,
The arena is silent today. As we collect the reward we fight so hard for: a pen, a small piece of card.
Three-hundred and sixty-four days I have fought and killed. Cowering innocents. Defenceless, despite ill-fitting armour, weapons thrust into their trembling hands. Lambs to the slaughter.
But only one may leave the arena, and only once a year can we send a message to those outside. To you.
Am I a monster? To do their bidding for such meagre pay?
Those I slay haunt my thoughts, my dreams.
And every single one of them looks like you.
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