The boy sat on an ordinary carpet with his legs folded under him.There was light coming through the window, it was just enough to stretch across the room, making it seem that the room was painted golden. The rays caught some dust. He watched it for a bit before looking back at the toys.
He was holding two of them. A small knight, worn smooth where the paint used to be, and something which resembled a dragon. He pushed them toward each other. They made that dry clicking sound, wood on wood, over and over.
He leaned close while he played, whispering something to himself. Maybe he was narrating the great stories of the knight to himself, or maybe nothing at all. The dragon fell and rolled onto its back. The boy stopped for a few seconds but then started giggling.
He reached out again, set the dragon upright, and kept playing until the light slid off the floor completely.
He placed the toys beside him and reached for another one.The warmth remained, but the whole house suddenly went quiet. He froze with his hand halfway to the pile of toys and listened to the hallway outside the door.
A set of footsteps approached.
He immediately lit up but then realised something, his parents had walked like this for weeks, with a strange demeanor. His father used to walk with firm steps that made the floor creak with a steady beat. His mother used to announce herself with a gentle knock against the doorframe, a habit she called a greeting tap. They both had stopped. This… made the child sad, he missed these things alot.
They still smiled at him, but their eyes looked strange, he could not tell what was strange about them, just that they weren't the same as before.They tucked him into bed with hands that trembled like they held something too fragile to touch. They whispered behind the thin wall after they thought he slept, their low voices blurring into a single worried hum. He could not explain any of this with words, he was just a child who was still barely 7 years old.
His mother's voice reached him through the door.
"Baby. Come out here."
Her voice slipped into the room in a thin thread that carried a slight shake. She sounded gentle on the surface, but beneath it was something different, pain, guilt and sadness. But how could he know, she was his mother after all.
His father spoke next, his tone low.
"Come on, son. It's time."
His hand went still around the toy.
"Time for what? Will I be getting a new toy, Daddy?"
He stood with fast movements, excited, and walked toward the door. His fingers brushed the cool metal handle and he opened the door.
The hallway exploded around him.
Hands surged from both sides of the frame and grabbed him by the arms, the shoulders, the back of the neck. A rough sack dropped over his head so fast that the cloth scraped his cheeks. Someone pulled his wrists together and wrapped rope around them until it bit into his skin. He tried to shout, but the sack swallowed most of the sound. His feet left the ground for a moment as someone yanked him upward.
Her mothers scream split into the air like a torn sheet.
A heavy body slammed him into the chest. A knee pressed hard into his spine. Another set of hands hooked around his ankles. He kicked and twisted, doing anything a child could do. He felt the hot breath of a stranger through the cloth.
"Move," a deep voice said near his ear.
The boy shouted for his mother. The cloth muffled him. He felt the vibration of his own voice more than he heard it.
The sound of his father's voice cut through the hallway, it was sharp and desperate.
"Stop! I said stop damn it. You will hurt him."
A heavy thud followed, then a cry. He jerked inside the hands holding him, but the rope locked tight.
The words of his mother crying, chased him as the men dragged him farther down the hall.
The house that once smelled of warm soup and clean linen now smelled of sweat and fear and old dust that rose from the floorboards as he scraped across them.
Someone shoved him into a cart or carriage, he could not really guess in the situation. The boards beneath him rattled. A door slammed and a bolt snapped into place. The smell of rust and damp wood filled the small space. A wheel screeched as the vehicle lurched forward.
His parents kept shouting for him, but their voices faded until he could no longer tell if they were calling his name or if his mind replayed the memory because he needed it… to stay conscious.
The ride lasted a long time, though he could not tell how long because fear stretched each moment until they all felt the same. The sack rubbed against his cheeks and pressed against his mouth when he breathed. The rough rope stung with each bump of the cart.
When the movement stopped, hands reached in, grabbed him again, and pulled him down from the cart. The ground shifted under him. Dirt. Then stone. Then something that felt like a metal grate.
A door opened with a long groan. He was pulled forward. The air changed, growing cold and damp as if they just entered a basement of sorts. Then the door shut behind him with a hollow knock that told him he would not leave this place by walking out.
The sack came off, and light stabbed his eyes.
He blinked and tried to see, but it would take adjusting in a comparatively dark room with only bits of light. Later, he saw a room coated in white walls that looked too clean, so clean that the smell of it made his throat hurt. He lay on a metal bed with wide straps holding his ankles and wrists. Another strap pressed across the top of his chest. A strange cold plate sat under his neck.
The air smelled like chemicals, sharp and bitter, as if someone had mixed them too strongly.
Three people in white masks stood around him. Their eyes watched him with the calm of men who did not see him as a 7-year-old child. Their hands moved quickly and smoothly as they prepared tools on a tray. The tools clicked, and screeched which makes your teeth on edge.
He tried to swallow, but his throat felt tight.
A soft voice rose from the corner.
"Arin."
He turned his head.
His mother stood near the wall. His father is beside her. They looked pale and held each other with shaky breaths. Altho…they didn't step closer nor did they try to free him.
Relief surged through him for one short moment.
"You found me, mama papa!" he said.
His mother nodded but didn't lift her eyes. She pressed her hands to her mouth like she was trying to stop something from escaping. Tears clung to her hands.
His father rubbed his face with both palms, dragging them down as if he wanted to scrape away whatever guilt sat there.
The masked man nearest to Arin spoke.
"Payment delivered."
Arin blinked.
His mother flinched as if the words struck her. His father looked at the ground.
"Good", his father said in a tired whisper. "We needed the credit."
Arin stared at them, trying to understand what they meant, trying to recall how often he had heard them whisper the word credit when they thought he slept, how they spoke it like it was a shadow creeping through their lives. He never knew what it meant, but he always knew it wasn't something good, because every time they discussed it, he would get beat by his father. He felt that same cold weight settle over him again.
He lifted his head as far as the strap allowed.
"Mother, take me home...please..." he said on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion.
She covered her face. Tears streaked down her wrists.
His father turned away.
The masked man picked up a tool.
Arin felt his heartbeat race. Something in him understood in a way that did not need words. He was not going home.
"Stop," he said, his voice little more than breath at first. "Please stop…"
The masked figures did not pause.
"Please," he said again, louder this time.
The man closest to him pressed a gloved hand to Arin's forehead and held him still.
"Stay calm dipshit."
Arin jerked his head back. His heart hammered. His breath broke into sharp gasps he could not control. The masked figures closed in. Their hands touched his arms and legs with firm, steady grips. One held his chin and another adjusted the strap across his chest.
Arin screamed.
"Help. Help me!!!"
No one answered.
The first surge of pain rose through him. A deep crushing force rolled through his body like a wave rising from beneath the bed. His muscles seized, and his thoughts cracked. The room blurred at the edges.
A clamp snapped shut. Something pressed hard into his shoulder, another pressure rose along his side. His vision swam. He tried to twist, but the strap held him.
He screamed again. "PLEASE...STOP...PLEASE JUST STO-". His voice broke
The Sound changed. It felt like it came from underwater. The clatter of tools and the low murmur of voices moved in and out of his hearing as if someone kept turning the world on and off.
The smell of chemicals thickened and the air grew hot. Something cold touched his temple. His teeth trembled, his limbs shook.
His body fought against the straps without his mind telling it to.
Time lost its shape. Pain rose and fell in a rhythm that made no sense. When one wave ended, he could barely breathe before the next came. He tried to hold on to thoughts, but they slipped away like sand through small fingers he could no longer feel.
He heard his parents leave the room at some point. Their footsteps and voices gradually faded.
He slipped in and out of waking. When he opened his eyes, the walls looked close, as if they leaned in. When he closed them, he saw doors that led nowhere. He did not know if a day had passed or a night. The light never changed—he just wanted to die.
His body weakened and his thoughts grew thin. He felt that his very being fading, not all at once, but piece by piece, until he could not hold onto anything except the sense of falling.
At the end, he knew something final was approaching. He felt it in a strange stillness that filled the room. He sensed the last blow before it landed. He sensed that this was where everything would stop.
He clung to one thought. The gods watched and did nothing.
Curse them.
The world folded around him—there was strange silence around him.
He gasped and sat up fast. Warm sheets slid down his arms. His back pressed into a soft mattress that felt nothing like the cold bed he left behind. He stared at a ceiling carved with twisting patterns that looked almost like vines. Soft lantern light filled the room. The air smelled of clean oil, fresh linen, and incense that reminded him of something holy.
He touched his body, and felt nothing wrong.
He touched his chest, expecting a hole...but to his surprise or shock, there was nothing wrong.
He breathed without pain. "How?
What??... is this—". He turned his head, sensing a gaze upon him.
A woman in her twenties stood near the bed. Her posture looked tense at first, then steadied when she saw his eyes open. Her clothes looked too fine for any place he knew. A man slept in a chair beside her, his head bowed, his breathing slow and even.
Arin stared at both of them, unsure if they were real, unsure if this room existed or if his mind built it to hide itself from pain.
His heart racing extremely fast, she shook his breath and as he was about to say something out loud, but he experienced the same extreme pain. He let out a haunting scream
The woman rushed and hugged him.
"Easy… everything is okay… you are safe..."
Safe.
That word sounded gentle, but his body refused it.
He did not dare believe it again.
He did not want to trust anything at all.