The Boy Who Wont Forget

The cold, bitter air gnawed at Ren's skin as he blinked awake. He was weak, his body almost hollow, like the life had been sucked from him, leaving an empty shell. The stone beneath him was cold, damp, and jagged, pressing into his bare back. He tried to shift but the rattling of chains at his wrists and ankles stopped him.

He sat up slowly, wincing as his screaming muscles protested. His wrists were raw, the skin rubbed red from the iron cuffs. Faint light seeped through cracks in the walls of the cell, casting thin beams over the dirt floor. The smell of mold, blood, and unwashed bodies filled the air.

For a moment, he wondered if this was a dream-a bad nightmare from which he could wake. But the hunger clawing at his stomach and the ache in his limbs told him otherwise. This was real.

Ren leaned back against the wall, exhaling shakily. The last thing he remembered was the cosmic void and the god who had sent him here. He didn't know where "here" was, but it wasn't Earth.

I'm alive… but why like this?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy boots. A rusted door creaked open, and a guard stomped in, his face twisted with boredom. "On your feet," he barked. "Work time."

Since Ren was not hurrying, the guard yanked him up by the collar and shoved him forward. He staggered, chains threatening to tangle his feet as he was herded out into the sun.

The bright light stung his eyes, and what he could see made his chest tighten: rows of slaves, shuffling along dirt pathways, their bodies thin and bruised. The camp was lined with makeshift fencing of rotting wood, and farther off from it, Ren saw figures moving beyond the fencing-watching.

Ren's breathing quickened. The strange shadows weren't human.

He swallowed hard as the chains dug further into his wrists, while the guard cuffed him towards a cluster of workers.

His shoulders burned while Ren hauled the bucket of water down the uneven pathway, and the chain sounds around his wrists clanked with every cut that went through into his skin. The midday sun pounded his back; beneath his feet, patches of dirt turned to segments of earth cracked and dry.

He had tripped over a loose rock and fallen to his knees, the bucket spilling water over the ground. His palms hit the dirt hard, and pain shot through his arms. A shadow loomed over him.

"Get up, boy," the guard sneered. Before Ren could react, a kick connected with his side, sending him sprawling. His ribs throbbed, but he bit his lip and forced himself upright. Crying or begging wouldn't help here.

He grasped the bucket, refilled it at the well, and trudged back toward the row of laborers working near a broken stone wall. The other slaves barely looked at him. They had their own burdens to carry.

By the time the afternoon dragged on, Ren had collapsed twice more. His breathing was in ragged gasps, and each step weighed heavier than the last. Finally reaching the wall and setting down the bucket, his legs gave out, and he fell backward to the ground.

An older slave, with a face like a raisin and eyes that had sunk into his skull, knelt beside him. "You won't last long like this," he muttered-the tone not unkind, but resigned. "New ones like you usually don't."

Ren glared at him, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I'm not going to die here." His voice was hoarse, but there was steel behind it.

The old man shrugged. "Suit yourself." He stood and shuffled away, leaving Ren alone in the dirt.

Ren clenched his fists. He wasn't sure where this determination came from-I won't let this place break me.

But as the sun dipped lower and another guard yelled at him to keep moving

Days turned into weeks, and Ren's body had ceased to react to pain-it was a background hum, always there, but ignored. He sat near the barracks, knees drawn up against his chest, watching the flicker of campfires as the other slaves lay down to sleep. Firelight reflected off the wood fence, casting shifting shadows that crawled across the dirt like living things.

He traced the bruises on his wrists with his fingers, trying to feel something other than the ache in his muscles. His stomach growled, but he ignored it.

Someone whispered behind him. "I heard them again. By the fence. Another one's missing."

Ren's breath hitched.

"Yeah. The beasts took him. They always take someone.

The conversation fell away, but the words clung to him like the weight of the chains on his ankles. He looked toward the fence, where the world outside the camp dissolved into darkness. Monsters outside, monsters inside.

He let out a shallow breath, shaking his head. A part of him really wished he could care more about the terror that something was lurking nearby, but he couldn't. His mind wasn't preoccupied with the thought of making it through the night. His thoughts had wandered elsewhere.

I haven't thought about them.

It hit him right in the guts. He'd been here-days, weeks, he didn't know how much longer-and it hadn't ever crossed his mind: his family. His mother's soft laughs, the firm nods from his father whenever he did something good, his sister's irritating jokes.

How was it that he had forgotten all about them?

He buried his face in his hands. It wasn't that he didn't miss them-he missed them so much, even the thought of their faces sent fresh pain through his chest. But this place hadn't given him time to grieve. Every day was a struggle to stay upright, to carry buckets, to avoid the guard's whip. He had been so focused on surviving there was no space for anything else.

Now that realization hit, the wall holding everything back crumbled. His shoulders shook with quiet sobs wracked into his hands. Everything weighed upon him: the beatings, the hunger, cold, and silence of being truly alone, piled onto him. He gasped for air between sobs, chest tight.

I don't want to be here," he whispered to himself. His voice cracked, barely audible over the crackle of dying fires. "I want to go home."

But home wasn't an option. The god had made sure of that.

Ren sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand in a useless attempt to cease the tears; they just would not quit. His breath caught in his throat, and the shaking only got worse. He had no one to comfort him, no family to tell him everything was going to be okay.

The sky above seemed so distant, uncaring, and the pale moon shone down upon a world indifferent to whether he cried himself into sleep.

The eventual exhaustion took hold of his body, and he let his head fall into the dirt as sobs faded silently. His last thought before dozing off was not of monsters or guards, but rather, the smell of homemade meals and how he'd never get to taste them again.