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 home.
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 someone's skull in.
A place where only the dregs lived.
Now, I was one of them.
A man who once walked these streets as a proper citizen.
Who once had a name that mattered, who once had a home 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 same as the ones who had been smuggled in.
The ones who had no rights, no place in this city.
The ones who were only tolerated because of Nasir's "mercy."
How the Hell did it come to this?
Was there really no system in place to help someone like me?
No emergency aid? Nothing to catch those who fell through the cracks?
No. That was the thing.
The new regime? Incompetent?
They were the opposite.
They had safety nets, programs, handouts.
They made sure no loyal citizen would end up in a place .
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 documentation.
Set it aflame with my own hands, let it turn to ash, let the proof of my existence vanish.
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.
Because in the end, they didn't care.
They had succeeded in ending that bastard's life, but when Nasir Al-Sultan came 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 me? A slum rat?
A man without papers was just another ghost. Another nameless body in a city already overflowing with them.
And to make tragedy even worse, I didn't just doom myself.
I doomed 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.
There was a damned mark on my forehead.
It doomed us as the forgotten.
Shame became 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 offered myself instead—any job, any task, any service.
No matter how demeaning, no matter how vile, I did what was asked with a smile.
A smile that meant another day lived, another meal scraped together.
Many a young noble came to entertain themselves here.
Their fun always came at my expense... not that I cared, though.
They had given me hope to live another day and to feed my family.
But even misery grew dull.
The ones who tossed me scraps soon lost interest.
My suffering was no longer entertainment, my struggles no longer worth their pity.
They turned away, as easily as one turned from spoiled food.
That was the worst of it.
Again, without our documentation, we couldn't claim the rations handed out by the officials.
I debated this in my head many hundreds of times, but I always arrived at the same 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 documents 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 moment 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.
"Manual labor for you. The oldest trade for your wife. If she's good, we'll send her to the entertainment district. That one's controlled by the Paladins, so don't worry about Nasir's men."
A usual deal for families like us, they affirmed, trying to coerce me 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.
On days when my hands returned empty, I scavenged.
The market's trash became my hunting ground, its refuse my salvation.
Even there, I found no mercy... 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.
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 me.
They beat me to the ground, fists falling like hammers.
Those I once looked down upon now towered over me, 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?
I roared, through broken teeth, through the taste of blood.
I gasped the question again.
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.
I was nothing but a joke to them.
A man broken for their amusement.
A cruel, cruel world indeed.