Page 18 of Thawed Gladiator Thrax

“I know just what I want to do. Right on the back of his thigh. A daisy with many petals.” This, I think, is the woman who couldn’t wait for me to remove my loincloth.

As Aurelia promised, it goes on for hours. The pain is so intense, I feel as though I’m just one open wound. There are moments when I can’t tell the difference between the needles and the knives. The wax, though. I always know when someone drips hot wax on me, especially when it’s poured into an open cut.

Funny how, though my howls of pain are loud, the sounds that register in my mind are the soft ohs and ahs of their pleasure as they pierce and cut and burn my flesh.

Since I can’t escape to the private spaces of my mind, I use my hate to push the pain away. I swim in hatred. Stew in it. Nurse it. Committing every word and deed to memory, I vow I will buy my freedom someday and return to kill them all, saving Aurelia and her poisonous tongue and eager glee for the last.

“Thrax?” Skye’s voice is soft, almost as soft as her gentle touch on my forearm.

Though I try, I can’t control my urge to yank away from her tender grip as my eyes flare open. My brain must be broken, because the scene here in this cafeteria, which is far from authentic, keeps flashing to the banquet room of two thousand years ago. The quiet discussions surrounding me keep flipping to the sounds of the Romans’ Latin as they urge each other to cut deeper and make the wounds prettier.

I don’t know how it’s physically possible, since I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but I vomit without warning, barely missing Skye’s stola as the brown liquid splatters on her shoes.

All talk has stopped, and every eye is staring at me. Without another thought, my feet carry me out of the room and I break into a run the moment I reach the hallway.

Chapter Seventeen

Skye

The world seems to slow as Thrax bolts from the room. I’m so worried for him, my heart constricts so hard I wonder if it will explode. The image of his face—drained of color, eyes unfocused—is seared into my mind. Something terrible just happened, and I have no idea what it was.

Without a second thought, I chase after him, my handmade toga flapping around my ankles. The hallway stretches in front of me, eerily quiet compared to the shocked murmurs behind us. My feet carry me swiftly to Thrax’s room, where I find the door firmly shut.

“Thrax?” My voice comes out breathless and shaky. “Are you okay? Please, let me in.”

Silence greets me. Pressing my ear to the door, I strain to hear any sound from within. Nothing. The lack of response sends a spike of anxiety through me.

I realize I’m not using the translator on my phone. After turning it on and pointing the speaker toward the door, I continue. “Thrax, I’m worried about you. Can we talk? Or… or I can just stand here if you don’t want to talk. Whatever you need.”

My words tumble out faster and faster, a symptom of my growing unease. “I’m sorry if the party upset you. We should have thought about how it might affect you. God, I’m so stupid. Of course, it would bring up memories. I just… I want to help. Please, let me know you’re okay.”

The door remains stubbornly closed as the man behind it stays stubbornly silent. My mind races, conjuring up worst-case scenarios. What if he’s having some kind of breakdown? I’ve been reading up on ancient Rome, and one shocking fact I gleaned was the prevalence of suicide among slaves. What if he’s hurt himself? The what-ifs pile up, each more terrifying than the last.

Rapid footsteps approach from down the hall. Dr. Diaz appears, her face etched with concern. “Skye? Is everything alright?”

Taking a deep breath, I try to calm my racing thoughts. “I think Thrax is having some kind of… episode? He won’t respond. But I’ve got my phone.” I hold it up. I’ve been using it to translate all my words. “If he doesn’t open the door in a few minutes, I’ll call you. Give me a little more time. I have the best relationship with him of anyone here.” The word “relationship” catches in my throat. What exactly is our relationship?

Dr. Diaz nods slowly. “Alright. I’m so sorry this happened. I think the team is going to need a therapist who specializes in trauma. But don’t hesitate to call me if you need help.”

As her footsteps fade, I slide to the floor, my hip against the door. Tentatively, I slip my fingers under the gap at the bottom, reaching out in a gesture of comfort and connection.

“I’m here, Thrax. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I can just… sit here. Or I can talk. I’m pretty good at talking. Did I ever tell you about the time I accidentally set off the fire alarm at my college dorm trying to make ramen noodles? Soup! You’d think it would be impossible to burn soup.”

For the first time ever, I’m actually glad for my word vomit. I just keep spitting out the flotsam and jetsam of my mind to keep up a running commentary, to remind him I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere.

“Have I mentioned my cat, Alabaster? He’s probably wondering where I am right now and hating that I left him with my friend. He’s this big white fluffball who thinks he runs the house…”

My rambling continues, jumping from topic to topic. I talk about my favorite books, my first coding project, and my terror the time I got lost on a city bus in my hometown. Anything and everything to fill the silence, to let Thrax know he’s not alone, that I’m right here on the dusty floor outside his door.

Luckily, I hear his bed squeak, so I’m assured—and relieved—that he isn’t in a bloody heap in the bathroom.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. My voice grows hoarse. I get thirsty, but I keep going. Maybe if I talk long enough, he’ll take pity on me and open the door. Or at least give some sign that he’s okay.

Just as I’m about to launch into a detailed explanation of the plot of my favorite TV show, I hear movement inside the room. Heavy footsteps approach the door, and I hear him enter the connected little bathroom. Is he… brushing his teeth? Yeah, his mouth must taste terrible after throwing up.

My throat constricts as the door handle finally turns. I pull my hand out from under the door and swivel to face it.

It swings open and Thrax towers over me, his face a stoic mask that sends a shiver down my spine. There’s anger there, simmering beneath the surface, and something else… pain? Fear? It’s hard to tell.

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