Mistress of the Colosseum

you can call it whatever you want, reincarnation, being dragged into hell itself by a twisted little devil, forced into a game of depravity and horror by an absolute fucking psycho, it didn't matter, because at the end of the day, in this world where death reigned supreme, this world where life seemed to be nothing more than an insignificant parasite sniveling and sobbing before its counterpart, I had no other choice.
I HAD to survive by any means necessary.
no matter the consequences, no matter the perception, no matter the cost.
if it meant I got to see tomorrow, I would become the world's greatest villain, the world's most sought-after prostitute, the world's most back-stabbing whore.
I would cast aside my body's worth, I would abandon the purity of my soul, I would sink to the brink of darkness, corruption, and sin that those who seek my death thrive within the very depths of.
I would become worse than those I seek to escape.
and I didn't care.
I didn't choose the high road.
I mocked it.
because, at the end of the day, the ONLY thing that matters, is that I'm alive.
is that I stick my middle finger so far up the ass of the deity who brought me here, that it ended up behind their eye.
morality, kindness, and innocence be damned.