Shadows of the Underworld

He was only seven now, but the memories clung to him like a nightmare that wouldn't fade. His mind was hazy, struggling to grasp the details of a past life he no longer understood. Yet the memories of this life, of this world, were clearer—sharper. He remembered being four years old, helpless as he watched his parents, skeletal and broken, sink deeper into their addiction. The smell of smoke and strange powders always filled their tiny hovel, clouding his thoughts and making it harder to breathe.

They had sold him that day.

He didn't even cry when it happened. It felt more like a dream then, something too surreal to truly believe. His mother, eyes hollow and frantic, couldn't even look at him as the slavers dragged him away. His father, barely conscious, muttered something incoherent and waved them off, his fingers twitching as they reached for the next hit.

At seven, he now understood what had happened. His parents had traded his life for another fleeting escape from their reality—a reality they couldn't handle, one filled with the same desperation that now trapped him underground.

The underground was stifling, the air thick with the weight of despair. He was only seven, yet his mind felt old—too old for the body he now inhabited. His memories, fragmented and unclear, came in flashes. Some were sharp, like the day his parents in this life sold him to the slavers.

Each day was the same, and he hated it. He hated how it dragged on, unchanging, yet every time he thought about it too deeply, it reminded him of the past.

"What did I do to deserve this?"He thought, he wasn't some self-proclaimed genius or someone who has achieved something great. He was just a normal person, someone you see in your everyday life.

He didn't have any great aspirations, just to earn some money to start a family, live comfortably and peacefully.

In his old life, the days had been predictable, but not like this. There had been warmth back then. A mother's soft voice, a father's tired but proud smile. His older brother laughing, always messing with him, making the boredom bearable. That kind of repetition was safe. But here? Here, it was suffocating.

The torchlight barely illuminated the endless tunnels as he shuffled forward, feet dragging through the dirt. His back ached, the weight of the sack pulling him down. He gritted his teeth. "One more step. Just one more step." It was a mantra he repeated in his mind over and over, like a prayer to the gods that didn't care about him anymore.

The sound of the whip cracking behind him brought him back to the present. "Move it, kid!" the guard growled, his voice a sharp reminder of where he was.

He stumbled forward, biting back the urge to say something—anything—but he stayed silent. No point in drawing attention. Here, attention got you killed, or worse.

But the thoughts still swirled in his head. 'This can't be it. There has to be more than this. I didn't come back just to end up a slave risht?'. Every step, every breath he took was a reminder of how little power he had, yet there was a flicker of something inside him that refused to die out. I survived once, I can do it again. I have to.

By noon, his arms and legs screamed in pain, but he kept moving. His movements were mechanical, every action just a way to survive the day. He glanced at the others around him—slaves like him, their faces pale and drained. They had been here too long, maybe longer than he had. He didn't know. He didn't care. They were shadows now, ghosts of what they had once been.

He saw one of the older slaves, a man with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes, stumble and fall. The guard didn't hesitate. The crack of the whip echoed through the tunnel. "Get up!" the guard snarled.

The man groaned but didn't rise fast enough. The guard raised his whip again, and this time the man managed to stagger back to his feet, wobbling as he resumed his task.

That's not going to be me, he thought, watching the man in silence. 'I won't end up like him. I can't'.

At night, in the cramped barracks, he lay awake on the cold stone floor. He never really slept anymore. Not like he used to. His eyes stared into the darkness, his body too tired to move, but his mind restless, unwilling to surrender to sleep. The others snored or coughed around him, but it was the silence in his head that gnawed at him the most.

"I wonder if my parents are still alive. Not these ones… not those addicts. My real ones. Mom, Dad, my brother… I hope they don't have to see me like this. They probably wouldn't be able to watch me like this".

He sighed softly, closing his eyes for just a moment, trying to remember the smell of his mother's cooking or the sound of his brother's laughter. Those memories were fading, and it terrified him.

"Hey, kid," a whisper broke the silence. One of the older slaves next to him, a thin man with a scar running across his jaw, leaned closer. "You still breathing?"

"Yeah." His voice came out hoarse, quieter than he intended.

"You ever think of escaping?"

He froze, his heart skipping a beat. His instinct told him to keep his mouth shut, but curiosity won out. "No," he lied.

The man chuckled, a dry, bitter sound. "You're lying. I can see it in your eyes. You've got that look… like you're waiting for the right moment."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you do. Everyone's waiting for something. Hope's a funny thing down here."

"Hope's dangerous," he said, more to himself than to the man.

The older slave just nodded. "You're not wrong. But if you've got any, don't let them take it from you. That's the only thing they really want". The man stopped for a moment observing him before he continued, "That's right, DO NOT let them get to you because guess what, they don't feed on your fear but your hope".

He turned away from the man, his body tense. 'Hope?, I don't know if that's what I have, he thought. I'm not waiting for some miracle to save me. I'm just waiting for a chance to make my move'.

Sleep was elusive, as it always was, and his mind drifted back to that other life. The safe one. The one where his mother's voice called him for dinner, where his brother wrestled him in the backyard. He missed that predictability now, the feeling that every day was a little boring, but in a good way. He missed knowing someone had his back.

The next day came, just like all the others. He found himself back in the tunnels, the same heavy sacks on his shoulders, the same guards pacing like restless animals. He moved like a ghost, always watching, always waiting.

As he dragged his feet along the muddy floor, he heard one of the other slaves muttering nearby, their voice low and desperate. "There has to be a way out. There has to be..."

The guard was on him in seconds, the whip striking the man across the back. "Shut up!" the guard snarled, kicking him for good measure.

The man collapsed, coughing, but didn't dare speak again.

He watched from the corner of his eye. 'That's what happens when you talk about escape. You get beaten, or worse. But… I need to escape. I can't rot here'.

The day ended like all the others, and they were herded back into the barracks. As he lay down on the cold stone floor, his thoughts returned to the older slave's words from the night before. Hope's dangerous. But maybe it's the only thing I have left.

He stared at the cracks in the ceiling, trying to keep his mind sharp, trying to hold onto the fragments of his old life. I'll find a way out. It won't be today. It won't be tomorrow. But I'll make my move. I have to.

The darkness closed in around him again, but this time, he held onto the faint glimmer of hope, however dangerous it was.