Moving past the shops, I eye everything at once; most of them are run by other blooded, rarely of my kind, and if only small ones. Nearly all of them bear the dull color of this place: brown, earthy, suffocating, as if the entire cavern shares one tone. But there are also blue-tainted or green. But in this district, most people are like .
The crystals overhead, however, shatter that monotony. Their glow stains the walls in shifting hues, casting the air in fractured light, as though we’re trapped inside so eternal dance hall; an endless night, soone once called it, and I can’t disagree.
Here, no one knows whether it is day or night, save for the official announcents that echo daily through the labyrinth.
I do not chase after Frank. What would be the point? He vanished into the crowded alley, swallowed by bodies pressing together.
Even if I forced my way through, I’d lose myself in that tide and risk wandering too far, risk losing the way back. And if the rumors are true—that a man explodes if his chip fails to register at his colosseum—I don’t dare test them.
Better to let Frank go. Better to let him carry whatever reckless impulse pulled him away.
Leaning against a chest-high wall of tal, its surface cold against my bare arms, I let my eyes wander over the current of people.
So, I tell myself I’ll go back soon, back to the cave, back to lie down and steal another hour of rest. Yes. I should do that. Rest. These days have been exhausting; way too exhausting.
The thought presses down on like a weight. I prop my chin against my fist and let the stream of faces blur together.
Most are as naked as I am, their ribs sharp against thin skin. So wear ragged cloth, scraps of underwear at least. Every tenth person, perhaps, has more than that—shoes, a jacket, a belt, sothing stolen or traded.
Rarer still are the ones in armor, a shoulder guard here, a plated helm there, fragnts of protection scattered across their fras like broken mories of warriors from the Middle Ages.
The sll is the worst part; a festering rot clings to the air, stronger than any garbage heap I’ve passed in the morning from Hamburg, when garbage fords drove through the polluted and dirty city.
But my nose is dulled now, my senses worn thin. I don’t even sll it as much as feel it: a burn in my nostrils, a bitter sting crawling down into my throat, and I want to puke it all out. But again, I’m not able to do so. My stomach gnarls at .
The crystals shift again, their light turning from blue to red, then from red to green, and finally from green to pale white, before blending into sothing new altogether. The labyrinth brightens and then darkens, as though ti itself is changing every few seconds.
The rhythm unsettles . I watch it for too long, and it feels like the world will collapse beneath my feet.
“You got so bread?” The voice drags back. A man stands below , his eyes sunken, his body a frail thing that still clings to life.
His voice cracks again, “So bread?” He looks confused, as if he can’t quite believe that I, out of all people, am the one who must hear his plea amidst the noise of trade.
I look past him. A group further down is handing over black coins in exchange for sothing round—small balls of food, maybe. My stomach twists at the sight, but I force myself to et the man’s eyes again.
His hair is greasy, hanging in clumps down his back. Then, as if his body decides it has had enough, he crumples and collapses to the stone floor beside another beggar, the words unfinished in his throat.
I look away. I’m a coward, but what else can I do? I have no bread to give, no water, no dicine. I can’t even care for myself. My stomach gnaws at , hollow, and the thought of shelter or safety feels like a distant dream.
Walking on, I lower my face, and as my eyes drop, I catch sight of myself.
The emptiness between my legs; the reminder of what was taken from . It doesn’t ache anymore, not in the flesh, but the absence is its own wound. A piece stolen, sothing that can’t be replaced.
Reviews
All reviews (0)