A TRIP DOWN MEMORY LANE

AZAR (Age ten, thirteen years ago)

The sun shone brightly, beating hard against my skin. My wounds stung badly, wounds I had suffered from the baker at the bakery where I had stolen a loaf of bread. Or at least, tried to because the baker caught me and made me pay for it dearly. I was beaten with the turning stick and then a hot pan was placed against my back.

I had screamed and pleaded for help but no one heard me or bothered to look at my way twice, I was a thief after all. Eventually I was thrown out of the shop and onto the streets. Starved and dehydrated, I wandered the street, trying to look for who would show mercy or compassion for me, but no one did.