They told me it was in the papers. They told me it was shouted from the rooftops, that there were articles, plays, commemorative plaques and symphonies. There were pictures of me in every country, in every church and under every stone. My name was gold and it was dust. I was told that my crime was the worst. I was to be fed to a lion. I was shown a picture; magnificent beast, creeping through the night, each stride lain down like a swift slice to the leaves and dirt.
Sat alone, deep underground. No more than a lump of flesh. I remember the lion. My fingers move against the cold stone and if I strain my ears I can hear the faint sound of wind, blowing softly through the cracks of the cell. But I can’t see a thing. Not a thing.
The stadium was planned. There would be helicopters in the sky and police in the crowd. Some called for my legs to be broken, smashed by a blunt hammer. There were those that wished for my eyes to be cut and scooped from my skull. They wanted my arms pulled from my sockets. The tickets sold out. The world had its eyes on the city; an example of economic and cultural superiority, of truly modern architectural planning. The designs were hailed as forward thinking. The surrounding area became a hotspot for business expansion.
I try to scream but all that comes out is hot air and saliva. I haven’t stood for years, my ankles grown into stone.
A lion was chosen from a televised series of auditions. He was paid to endorse food products. He came to see me. I had never seen a lion before. He wore a shirt and told me it wasn’t personal, that he didn’t want to seem inhuman. I nodded and shook his paw.
News spread of an execution on the continent. A mass murderer was fed to a bear. He was photogenic, hairy, broad, a hit with the ladies. He released his own perfume, had an affair with a politician and published an autobiography. His claws were like knives. The murderer died after seven hours of prolonged mutilation. It was spoken of for weeks.
My arms have become string. I rarely lift them. Sometimes I stretch as far as I can, up into the dark, and try to feel the soft breath of a waiting figure, or a gentle bird above my head; its hard beak like a nail in the stone wall.
The lion came back a year later. He spoke a lot and I listened to everything he said. I think he had been drinking. His wife was pregnant and he was afraid. He didn’t know who to talk to. He pulled out a tissue and wiped his cheek. His paws were golden and he let me touch them. I smiled and he cried again.
When I sleep I dream of a mouth, raised above the city, its tongue like a wire, touching the ground, and people climb up, masses of legs and faces, all moving upwards. The city left silent as wet lips smile over empty houses and forgotten parks.
The lion came again. His wife had left him, taking full custody of the child. She had written an article about their relationship; all the details, all the ups and downs. I held his paw. He wept into my side. I could feel the tears run down my skin, dripping into a puddle around my big toe. I pressed my hands into his fur; it felt good against my fingertips. I wanted to dive into his mane, to swim in the golden hair and wrap my body in the soft tender streams.
The lips slowly part, a black hole in the sky.
They forgot the details of my crime. I changed from the devil to a ghost; no-one remembered my name. I was whispered about in school-yards, church-halls, and sewing-circles. The stadium was complete but nothing happened. It was left unlit, the shops were all shut. The streets full of rubble. Soon the guards stopped visiting me. I was slid food through a hatch, sometimes I saw a hand, but most of the time I just heard footsteps, the tray entering and footsteps once more.
I was told that the lion had broken down. He had lost sponsorship from the stadium. He tried to become an actor, but couldn’t get work. He was involved in a violent incident on a train from London Bridge
A roar, slicing through the backbone, blowing people down to the ground. An animal sound, full of hair and teeth.
On the headline news it was announced that an old celebrity who had fallen on hard times was involved in a murder. The public wouldn’t stand for it. They saw the state of the city and blamed it on him. He was an animal. He was a monster. Something had to be done. It was revealed in the papers that this creature was once affiliated with the stadium; the eye-sore, the embarrassment, the waste of money.
The last I heard, the lion was tied to a stake in the ground. A firing squad was instructed to fill him full of bullets until there was more metal than meat. No-one came to watch, miles and miles of seats lay empty. The strips of skin and bone were scooped into a bag and thrown in the river. The stadium was demolished; forgotten. The area renovated. They built new accommodation.
Now I can’t see anything, nothing at all. I’ve forgotten how big the room is, it’s all black. I just sit in this little patch and try not to move.
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