The Fate

“Vesuvian”, I’ve picked the gladiators fate. Rattling bones fly out of my ebony hands, landing an uneven cross. “Death”, I proclaim to the sweat and horror-filled eyes. Creeping wind gust picks up the flaps of my tent revealing a lustful green oasis behind. “Three drops of blood”, I demand payment. Instead, my neck is tightly tangled in my visitors’ chains. I let him think he can control me, and demand from me before I turn back to desert sand.