He steps on me again. He speaks. I hear nothing.
I wheeze. No voice escapes me.
I am powerless. A slave.
Then, suddenly, I breathe again. Weaker than before, but more desperate. My veins burn, my fingers clench, then go slack. My eyes are red—bloody. My vision turns red. Red bleeding into blue. Colors swirl, shifting like a fractured spectrum of the rainbow. Cold hues, despite the warmth of my own blood.
Blood drips from my nose, trailing down my cracked lips. I don’t taste it. My breath is heavy, like a dying man’s.
The blue light flickers, growing weaker. My fingers twitch, up and down. All I hear are muffled blows. My left ear drowns in its own filth—a warm sensation, though humiliating.
A dull voice. Too dull.
And my eyes slip shut.
Metal clanks. Hissing sounds. Screams. The cries of men and women alike.
“Don’t rough up the women and children too much!” someone shouts.
My eyes are half-closed, blood and filth sealing my eyelids.
“Feminine-looking men will do just fine too!” another voice—stronger, crueler—adds with a laugh. My eyes snap open completely, sharp pain stabbing through them.
I groan, struggling for breath. I cough. My body is weightless.
I look down. I see the heels of boots beneath me.
I glance around, my eyes wide. Others are kicked, forced onto their knees. Shackles clamp around wrists and ankles. Naked. Brown, red, and yellow bruises stain every body. No exceptions.
Every one of them stinks—except for some of the blue-blooded ones, the so-called noblemen who still care about hygiene. But not about their mouths.
My left ear rings, a high-pitched scream of its own, but with my right, I listen. The stately ones—the judicial blues—whisper among themselves, wary of who might hear.
“Killjoys,” someone mutters.
“Only in it for profit,” another says.
“Plenty of fresh children aboard,” one blue murmurs to another, and I listen in silence.
I have given up moving. My arms hurt too much.
I am furious, but my face has been robbed of rage.
I cannot comprehend those words. Cannot accept them as real.
I turn my head just in time to see a mother lose her son. Both naked, both forced onto their knees.
Fishermen hold them roughly, like all the others on deck.
I see the wood. The light. The blue hue that dances in my vision, tinted violet by the blood in my eyes.
I take a long breath. My gaze lingers on them, but no tears come. None flow.
The little boy screams. His mother weeps at the sight of the ten-centimeter rod of molten lava.
A sharp, high-pitched cry from the boy. A broken, devastated wail from the mother.
Another hiss. Another scream—not for her child this time, but for the brand seared into her own flesh.
More hissing. More screams.
I weep, without weeping.
I glance left. Right.
My dry lips tremble at the sight of the corpses.
Noble figures—at least, they look noble—step over them as they walk. Among the fishermen and sailors, some appear refined. Dressed in suits, ranging from beige to deep azure to black.
Slicked-back hair, parted neatly to the side. Luxury watches. Monocles gleaming over their eyes.
Butterflies. Beautiful creatures, while we are flies.
Drowning in our own piss and excrement.
No, they scream. Not me.
Humans scream, and the nobles watch them with the eyes of greedy politicians. They do not smile, yet they are happy. I can see it in their blue lips.
The deck is drenched in red blood.
Here and there, fish lie scattered.
Sturdy tables, massive sails, thick ropes, and cannons line the ship.
But everything is soaked in red.
Empty heads. Pale. Snow-white.
They lie strewn across the deck.
Bodies, intestines spilling from gaping wounds.
Arms, hacked off, discarded like scraps of meat.
I retch at the sight, but only saliva dribbles from my lips.
I am still being carried.
A shoulder digs into my stomach. The person carrying me moves with a light bounce. The stabbing pain grows sharper and sharper until, finally, I retch again.
This time, not just saliva.
Red and black bile—just a handful, but enough.
My vomit splashes onto his pants.
I am thrown to the side.
“You red swine!” he snarls, but I don’t acknowledge him.
My trembling hand wipes at my mouth.
I lie on human entrails.
My feet rest on the hair of severed heads.
I stare into their vacant eyes.
Up into the boundless turquoise sky.
The clouds, tinged blue.
The sun, high above, bearing down upon me.
If there is a god, then let this be nothing more than a wretched dream.
Take me back—to when I could fall asleep in my parents’ arms, to when I could tell my brother bedtime stories, to when I stood proud before Ren, to when I could ride a bicycle and he could not.
I gaze into the turquoise vastness, lifting my quivering arms.
My shoulders burn with agony.
A blow. To me. My head spins like a carousel. My brother loved them, loved riding horses like a prince.
A loud pop, a crack reverberates in my skull. My lower jaw comes loose, hanging askew to the side.
Is this how the old man felt when I beat him, while he lay powerless beneath me?
My vision flickers, my head twists, my eyes roll lifelessly in their sockets. As I fall into the open abdomen, I catch only the silhouette of a figure hurling the bearded man aside before everything turns black.
I taste. I smell it. Death.
The blood is still warm. My face is submerged in a putrid, slimy mess—its consistency like Bolognese sauce. The stench is unbearable, and I force myself upright, though barely. My face is drenched in a color that matches my eyes.