The cell reeked of rust and rot, the stench of old blood woven into the corroded metal walls. Water dripped from the ceiling in slow, deliberate drops, pooling in cracks along the uneven floor. Somewhere down the corridor, a man groaned—low and guttural—before falling silent again.
Oliver sat against the wall on a mattress that had long since been torn to shreds, its stuffing spilling like the entrails of something long dead. He watched the water above him, hypnotized by the way it clung to the ceiling before letting go.
Where did it all go wrong?
Hadn't he lived a good life? Not perfect—not even happy, really—but comfortable. Secure. He could've stayed ignorant, let the world rot around him while he sat in his family's quiet corner of it. But no. The Black Sun saw to that.
The memories came slow and heavy, each one pressing into his skull like a knife twisting deeper.
The dinner table—Mila's laughter, high and unguarded, filling the space between clinking silverware. The smell of seared steak, juices pooling on a plate in front of him. His mother's voice, warm but tired. His father, pouring a drink with steady hands. The party wasn't extravagant, but it had been enough to make Mila's eyes light up. Ten years old. They'd gone all out for ten.
Then the walls came down.
Oliver exhaled sharply, pressing his palm against his face. His fingers trembled against his temple. He could still hear the gunfire, the shouts, the sickening crunch of boots on broken glass.
How did they even get past the border?
He swallowed the thought before it could fester. The answer didn't matter. Nothing mattered, except the fact that they were gone, and he was here—alive in a place meant for the dead.
"Mom. Dad." His voice barely made a sound. He let his hand drop, staring at the filth beneath his nails.
I hope the afterlife is kinder than this shit hole.