The massive deluges of water from the atmosphere are finally pouring out after a long period of drought.

Dirty buckets line the equally dirty streets of the slums in hopes of capturing enough water in order to sustain the desperate families.

Many footsteps clamor on the cracked pavement as the children rush out from their decrepit hovels to find a semblance of pleasure in the rain.

With the water pouring down they scrub their soot-stained faces, the water seeps through their cracked skin to sting them but they bear the brunt of the pain. With how the weather has been recently, who knows when they would be given an opportunity to tidy themselves up.

One of the children, with a limp in his leg, drags himself over to one of the worn-out buckets. The once-bright paint that had decorated the outside of it had long since peeled off and little flecks of it could be seen accumulated along the surface of the collected water.

Looking both ways the child checked the surroundings, clearing the area before making a desperate crawl towards the buckets in hopes of snatching a quick drink.

His throat was parched, and he was desperate for anything to sustain him.

Previously before making this attempt, he had tried to sit still and catch the water with his mouth, but with the wind howling the way it was, the water was blown just out of his grasp.

It was as if the heavens were taunting the young boy, surrounding him with water but leaving him unable to actually obtain any of it.

His mouth was dry, and as he licked his lips the tongue ran over the coarsely cracked lips, and what little saliva there was dripped into several stinging cuts.

The risks were great, but the chance of him perishing without any water was even greater.

His self-preservation instincts took over and despite his mind screaming at him to not go for the buckets, the body demanded that its needs be satisfied.

And so he crawled, every so often he would stop his mad dash to press himself motionlessly against the ground.

After lying still for a while he would resume his frantic crawling, all the way until he had finally reached the buckets.

Pulling himself up, avoiding putting pressure on his limp leg he dragged himself over to the bucket's rim before stooping his head over to gulp at the water.

The water, despite it being dirty, was refreshing. Words cannot so simply describe the intense sense of relief of knowing that you would be able to live for a little longer.

Words cannot so simply describe the pleasure someone would receive upon obtaining something they had been denied for so long.

And for now, at least temporarily, the cries of his body were sated as his lips were moistened. Now if only he were able to do something about that nagging, persistent hunger.

Then, suddenly, a withered man grabbed him by the hem of his patchy shirt from behind.

"You weren't just pilfering the supplies. Were you lad?"

"Mr. Rotterdam! I swear I wasn't up to nothin! I'm a good lad! I promise" he cried.

"Ambitan, I like you. Or rather, I did like you. But you know something? If there's something that I just can't stand… it's a filthy liar and cheat."

"Ambitan, you know those scars I got on my back. You wanna know how I got them?"

Rotterdam's grip tightened on Ambitan, practically lifting him off the ground.

Whimpering, Ambitan stuttered out, "What scars sir? You're practically perfect!"

"Flattery will get you everywhere kid. Apparently, you've been reading them old pamphlets. Unfortunately for you, it won't get you shite here round these parts."

"I got these scars from a job me and my former partners were running. A classic rubbish run, go in, collect the scraps and run like hell before anyone gets you."

Sensing that something was wrong, Ambitan started to flail around in Rotterdam's grip, trying to break free and desperately escape.

The grip tightened even further, such as that Ambitan's face started to flush purple as the air started to get cut off.

"I got these scars after my partners turned coat, ran a knife all the way from me collarbone to me arse."

"Filthy liars and cheats the lot of 'em. And you wanna know what you're beginning to remind me of dear Ambitan?"

Ambitan continued his flailing but slowly the strength started to leave his limbs, and as the suffocating grip tightened even further, the meager light in his eyes slowly died out, as sweet unconsciousness swept him up and away.

As Ambitan's limbs went limp Rotterdam said. "You remind me exactly of them, kid."

Then, unceremoniously, Rotterdam flung Ambitan's limp body into a pile of garbage, before turning around and stalking away.

Before he had fully departed though, he glanced over his shoulder, "You best not betray the trust you've been given. It's already fragile enough as is."

"Anyone catch you doing this again and I'll do to you exactly what I did to those former partners 'o mine."

The rain kept pouring, pooling in little potholes that dotted the streets.

The kids that had been running in the street before had long since gone inside after having witnessed the example made out of Ambitan for having dared to make an attempt on the water supply.

Lying in the garbage pile, his bruised and beaten body protested as his hand reached out to pull himself out.

The rain soaked all the way through to his bones, seeping into his shirt and weighing him down. His hair was matted down and Ambitan only felt the lingering burn of the pain throughout his body.

Rapidly he gulped down breaths of air, his lungs singing after finally receiving the oxygen it had long lusted for.

Panting, he picked himself off of the ground before heading back to his own little hovel.

A simple, rather uneventful day within the Pit-Slums, who knows what tomorrow will bring?

All Ambitan prayed for was an escape, a seemingly impossible event that practically all the children hoped to become reality.

However, hope is meaningless, abandon all your dreams, your ambitions, and desires if you truly seek to survive within the slums.

For the pit will devour your soul, and the slums shall consume your body.