'Romulus, Grew, Unsheathed' by Justin Joyce

The Romulus of my dreams only cuts the heart out of Rome in spirit. A blade unsheathed and wrenched deep. When I wander out of bed, I change the sheets to deal with the pooling blood leaking from my ears. My daily ritual, to wash the setbacks of my kingdom, the mistake of my brother. I have been knocked asunder from history, become the footnote of myth. My punishment for weakness is centuries of hindsight. I set the ear plugs in to minimize the risk of bleeding out my greatest failures. The body of Rome would grow off the back of Romulus’s murder, to become the greatest work of mankind. But the heart and spirit died when Romulus founded our legacy on the sporting pedestal of kin-slaying. I clean my sheets. I dress for my shift at Poundland. I affix my name tag: Remus, Fallen Father Of Rome.