Yet, even with the weight of my mistakes, I labored in this new world.
Though 'labor' might not be the right word.
Survival was my trade now, the slums my new ho.
The kind of place people pretended didn't exist.
The kind of place that stank of piss and rotting flesh.
The kind of place where even the guards didn't bother coming unless they were looking for an excuse to bash soone's skull in.
The eastern slums.
A place where only the dregs lived.
And now?
Now, I was one of them.
.
A man who once walked these streets as a proper citizen.
Who once had a na that mattered, who once had a ho with walls that didn't crumble at the touch, a family that didn't have to go to sleep with their ribs pressing against their skin.
Now, I lived the sa as the ones who had been smuggled in.
The forgotten.
The undocunted.
The ones who had no rights, no place in this city.
The ones who were only tolerated because of Nasir's "rcy."
How the Hell did it co to this?
Was there really no system in place to help soone like ?
No ergency aid? Nothing to catch those who fell through the cracks?
No. That was the thing.
There were systems.
Plenty of them.
The new regi? Incompetent?
No.
They were the opposite.
They had safety nets, programs, handouts.
They made sure no loyal citizen would end up in a place like this.
But ?
I couldn't involve myself in any of it.
I was far from loyal. They knew that.
What they didn't know, and what I didn't want them to know was that I...
I didn't exist anymore.
I had burned my docuntation.
Set it afla with my own hands, let it turn to ash, let the proof of my existence vanish.
Why?
To prove my loyalty to the rebels.
To show that I was not tied to the old world.
To show that I was one of them, that I would fight for their cause.
And for what?
For nothing.
Because in the end, they didn't care.
They had succeeded in ending that bastard's life, but when Nasir Al-Sultan ca along, they ran away like rats.
All their promises escaped alongside them.
I couldn't join them either, I had lost my usefulness.
What would they want with ? A slum rat?
A man without papers was just another ghost. Another naless body in a city already overflowing with them.
And to make tragedy even worse, I didn't just doom myself.
I dood my family too.
My wife. My children. They didn't have proof of existence either.
No papers. No way to claim aid. No way to prove that they belonged anywhere.
We were nothing.
All because of .
A mark.
There was a damned mark on my forehead.
It dood us as the forgotten.
Sha.
Sha beca my shadow.
I begged, voice cracking, hands outstretched.
But the streets had too many hands and too few coins.
Desperation was a currency all its own, and I had nothing left to barter.
I changed tactics.
I offered myself instead—any job, any task, any service.
No matter how deaning, no matter how vile, I did what was asked with a smile.
A smile that ant another day lived, another al scraped together.
Many a young noble ca to entertain themselves here.
Their fun always ca at my expense... not that I cared, though.
They had given hope to live another day and to feed my family.
That was enough.
But even misery grew dull.
The ones who tossed scraps soon lost interest.
My suffering was no longer entertainnt, my struggles no longer worth their pity.
They turned away, as easily as one turned from spoiled food.
...Food.
That was the worst of it.
Again, without our docuntation, we couldn't claim the rations handed out by the officials.
I debated this in my head many hundreds of tis, but I always arrived at the sa conclusion.
If I asked the Faraja to confirm our identities, they'd check their inventory, search the ledger.
They'd find proof, but they'd also see that I had asked them to hand over the docunts not so long ago.
I was supposed to have them. They were my responsibility. And I had "lost" them.
What remained of our life would crumble further the mont they figured that out.
By law, they'd be forced to cast us out, exile us from this wretched place.
We'd need to reidentify ourselves, and that would take months.
How would we survive out there? In the desert?
Here was struggle enough; outside was just a death sentence.
And so, with no other option, we turned to the gangs.
They controlled the rations, the flow of stolen food.
They had what we needed, and they were willing to share—for a price.
"Work for us."
What was they said.
"Manual labor for you. The oldest trade for your wife. If she's good, we'll send her to the entertainnt district. That one's controlled by the Paladins, so don't worry about Nasir's n."
A usual deal for families like us, they affird, trying to coerce into it.
I refused without hesitation.
It was not even a choice.
I would never let my wife stoop so low and do such things for our survival.
And so, we starved.
On days when my hands returned empty, I scavenged.
The market's trash beca my hunting ground, its refuse my salvation.
Even there, I found no rcy... only regret. Regret at my denial.
The strong ruled the filth as they did the world.
Drunks, half-dead and grinning with rotten teeth, hoarded what little remained.
Their bodies, ravaged by whatever poisons they pumped into their veins, still held more strength than my own.
They saw as prey.
I fought. I clawed. I bled.
I tried, I really tried, I tried so incredibly hard to take anything that was left—the trash of the trash, the scraps of the scraps, and yet…
Yet even the scraps of the scraps were denied .
They beat to the ground, fists falling like hamrs.
Those I once looked down upon now towered over , sneering.
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why?
"WHY?!"
I roared, through broken teeth, through the taste of blood.
"..."
No answer.
"W-Why?"
I gasped the question again.
"..."
No answer.
"Please... w-why?"
I begged. I pleaded.
"..."
No answer.
"AHAHAHAHAHHA!"
Only laughter—loud, uncontrollable laughter.
Laughter that rang like a funeral bell as my vision blurred, as my body failed, as the world turned to darkness.
Ah.
I was nothing but a joke to them.
A man broken for their amusent.
A cruel, cruel world indeed.
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