Amor Fati: A Pinocchio Retelling

The guardsman pointed at the way Martino was meant to go with his loose mask and pushed Pinocchio’s back to another hallway. Specks of dust descended from the walls as the little wooden boy got closer and closer to the muffled roars. When fragments of light pierced a tattered cloth that the guardsman parted, the wooden boy’s hearing became engulfed with the fervorous cries of people that filled every seat in the stadium. For a moment, the boy was swept away by the passionate howls and had this instinctual urge to join in, but the cricket set him straight and urged him to look at what is actually transpiring. Pinocchio hopped to the edge to peak over, but was too short to look over the edge. The guardsman quickly wrapped his hands under Pinocchio’s arms and gently lifted him to avoid any scars on his body. He dragged a crate that was catching dust in the corner to his feet and placed the wooden boy on it so that he could finally see the blood that was spilled on the bloodstained sands. A large man overpowered another and clobbered him into the sands to coat it with blood and guts. When the man raised his bloodied fists and walked around, the crowd bursted into blazing excitement. Instead of imitating the audience’s excitement, Pinocchio was struck with profound confusion. 

“Why does he get praised for doing that while I get ridiculed and shamed?”

The guardsman’s jarringly blue eye landed on Pinocchio. His chest convulsed from a hearty chuckle that sounded like grating stones out of his throat.

“Like I said before: you were at the wrong place at the wrong time. But here, you can finally be free and accept the darkness that is repressed by the blinding light above. Here, we can be the beasts that we all are and accept our primal roots. We can do what feels right instead of what’s said to be right.”

“But don’t we want to cherish life since it’s so short and brittle? Why would people want to snuff out such brittle beauty because of thoughtless joy and senseless violence?”

A silence forced its way into the mind of the guardsman, aback by Pinocchio’s unexpectedly profound insight.

“...What’s your name, wooden boy?”

“Pinocchio.”

“Wel, Pinocchio, I can’t really take you for a fool now, can I? You’ve obviously been built for perfection and beauty in mind. But deep down I know…”

The azure glow from the guardsman’s eye socket came closer to Pinocchio. A small blue fairy that was bound by a golden chain around its neck flew towards the wooden boy for a closer inspection. It repeated the words of the guardsman which added an ethereal tone to his gravelly voice.

“I know that your light is only there because of the suffering, the darkness of your maker. You were born from darkness, so you should just accept your roots and enjoy what curse you have to bear, as we all must do. All who own hearts are cursed with imperfection and you, Pinocchio, are no different.” 

Those words bubbled inside Pinocchio's mind as he looked at the raw glee of that bloodied man. Something about that just didn’t click in his head, which urged him to hop off of the crate he stood on and walk away. 

“Pinocchio, wait! You’re going to miss the best part if you leave now! Aren’t you curious as to what Martino can do?” The guardsman said with an outstretched arm.

He twists his wrist and aims his palm towards the sky as an invitation for Pinocchio to observe the bloodied battle grounds once more. His smooth wooden hand held the guardsman's large rusty hand as it plucked him from the ground and plopped him on the crate again. 

Martino’s large frame ducked under the entrance and entered into the arena. He carried an oversized mallet with him that had jarringly detailed carvings all over the head of it, but also the entire length of the handle. An overwhelming excitement bursted in the audience when they saw him lift that ornate hammer. The crowd was deaf to it, but Pinocchio swore that he heard a jungle of clicking and ticking in the large head of the hammer, as if it was a giant music box that swallowed the fervor of the people. Confusion was the first expression on the bloodstained face of the human gladiator. Curiosity moved his feet towards the foreign threat. Excitement erupted from the man as he launched himself towards Martino. 

The large doll held the hammer in his two right hands and swung it over his head, grabbing it with his left hand. When the veil of sand in front of him flowed back into the ground, Martino charged towards the man and swung the mallet at an alarmingly quick speed. The man regained his confusion with a mix of intense pain as he struggled to get back on his feet after being launched towards the arena wall. 

Seeds of despair were sown into the gladiator as the roaring of the audience reached greater heights. Pinocchio became just as confused as the battered gladiator who was struggling to stand without wobbling.

“Wasn’t the crowd cheering for him earlier? Didn’t it mean that they liked him? Then why are they suddenly cheering for his demise?”

The rusty hinges on the corners of the guardsman’s lips creaked as they pulled up for an eerie smile. 

“They don’t care about anything but their own self interest; to see carnage. They just root for whoever is the strongest, simple as that.”

“Some people seem to be upset though.” Pinocchio said, pointing at a person throwing their hat to the ground and reeling back with their head in their hands.

“Those are the people who placed bets; they put money on the bloodied and battered gladiator’s victory. If the gladiator loses, they lose their money.” 

“Is losing money worse than the loss of a life? That’s just barbaric!” The cricket tweaked Pinocchio’s internal wheels to enrich his moral compass. 

“The gladiator chose this life. Gladiators live and die by the rules of the arena.”

“He’s in there because of a silly debt that isn’t his! Mangiafuoco harassed him to fork out the money after his father killed himself! He’s forced to fight and earn enough money to be free, you fool!”

Pinocchio grabs a hold of his wooden head in a poor attempt to silence the blaring cricket. A puff of steam hissed out of the guardsman’s clenched teeth to form a scoff. He simply ignored the cricket, like he’s been doing since the cricket got here, and continued watching the massacre. 

With a lightning quick strike from the sky, the gladiator’s limbs bursted out of their sockets from the impact of the hammer. Squelches and the cracking of bones accompanied the melody that the head of the hammer sang to create a haunting sound. The hammer vanished with a few ticks and became a blanket to cover the pile of guts that draped over the sands. Rivers of blood meandered between the pale sands that began to rumble with the excitement of the audience that feverishly cheered on Martino’s work. The large doll waved all four of his hands towards the people and turned his warped head that was crowned with twisted horns. His cape, untouched by blood, glistened and reflected the bright cheer of the people before being engulfed by the darkness of the exit. 

“Martino might house the soul of a human,” the cricket bitterly chirped, “but he has the spirit of a demon. An ugly, vile demon who gains joy from violence.” 

“I can hear your bitter whispers, Mr. Nicchi.” The guardsman interjected. 

“But you are very mistaken; Martino is the most human he can ever be. He has surpassed what it means to be human by surpassing what it means to be truly authentic to one's true nature. While others fear it, he embraces it and lets it flow freely without limitations, submitting wholly to himself. That, Mr. Nicchi, is the true essence of human authenticity. Humans are able to make an infinite amount of choices that dictate what kind of person they are; Martino simply picked choices that others would fear to pick and aligned himself with the bellicose nature he was born with. He follows his own path despite the opinions of the world because he knows deep down that he’s being more honest with himself than all those who lie to themselves and condemn him. It is a great virtue to live out one's authentic self to the fullest. And here, in the shadows, he can thrive and show his truth. Those who look inward can appreciate his art.” 

His retort stewed in the silence between the two as they walked away from the arena and its roars. Whispers from the azure fairy that dwelled in the guardsman’s eye socket reinforced the idea that has been itching at the back of his mind. 

“Pinocchio, would you like to join a play? You would make a perfect actor! You will be dancing and gesticulating under the sunlight with a crowd of people cheering for you. What greater joy is there than to make others happy?” His voice stoked the glow of the blue eye to shine as bright as the moon in that abyssal gap of the mask. 

The wooden boy was hesitant at first, but that hesitation was quickly consumed by his intrigue. He wanted to know what it was like to be loved instead of feared, so he let his wish drive him to accept his offer.