The young man decided to push himself up, ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs.
He glanced at the old man, who now sat with his back against the wall, muttering angry curses under his breath. The atmosphere between them was tense, like thin glass that could break at any moment.
"Are you done cursing? Old man?" The young man asked, his voice steady.
The old man's head lifted up. His eyes were sharp and full of venom.
"You've got quite a big mouth on you, murderer." He growled. "I probably should strangle you in your sleep, that might getting me some medals."
Although the young man felt a bit nervous, still, he acted calmly at the threat. "You'd be doing me a favor by freeing me from this hellish place."
The old man sneered. "Don't you're the victim here! I've heard all the stories, every single one. The entire prison knows exactly who you are and what you did!"
The young man sat back against the wall with a grunt. "Yeah? Then maybe you can tell me then."
The old man squinted. "Tell you what?"
"What I did."
A scornful laugh escaped the old man's mouth. "Oh, that's funny. Acting all innocent now, are we? Those kids nowadays are getting cunning than ever!"
After taking a deep breath, the young man decided to take the risk and tell the truth.
"Why does everyome keep saying that? I'm not playing dumb or anything." His voice was serious. "I don't remember anything for real. Not my name. Not my past. Not even the crime I'm in here for."
He didn't trust the old man enough yet to tell the truth. However, in this situation, he had no option left but to hope that the old man would somehow believe him. It was his only chance to gain an ally and to know basic things about his whereabouts.
"Bullshit." The old man's response was sharp and loud. "You want me to believe in that crap? That you forgot about the hideous crime you committed? Oh please, nobody is gonna fall into that nonsense of yours!"
The young man didn't answer right away. He just stared at the floor and sighed heavily.
Obviously. What did I expect? No one will believe such ridiculous story likes that.
The young man slowly raised his head, forcing himself to look straight at the old man's eyes.
"I don't expect you to believe me." He said. "I meant, like hell I wouldn't believe it either."
The old man shook his head and mumbled to himself. Probably more curses.
"But it's the truth." The young man continued. "When I woke up here, my mind is just blank. I didn't know my name or remember anything. All I felt was pain, confusion, and a bunch of people calling me a scum."
The old man's eyes narrowed as he considered the young man's words. For a brief moment, doubt appeared on his face before he returned back to his stern expression.
"So you think that stupid story of yours will gives you a free pass?" He spat, pushing himself off the wall. "You're still here because you committed an act that so horrible to be forgiven."
The young man clenched his fists, his frustration slowly building up. "I never wanted any of this! I woke up in a damn cell, suddenly got beaten up for unknown reasons, and now I'm stuck here with no idea why or how this happened!"
The old man took a step closer, looking ready for a fight. "Do you think I give a damn about your sad story or whatsoever? You're just another worthless trash in this place."
"You are no different than me!" the young man shot back.
"Oh, I am far better than you! Unlike you, I'm not a family murderer-" The old man yelled but suddenly stop mid-sentence.
All of a sudden, a heavy silence fell between them. From outside, distant shouts and clanging sounds of weapons or tools echoed through the stone walls.
The young man collapsed down, exhaustion and pain washing over him. He leaned against the cold stone wall, his heart pounding from the heated argument. Opposite him, the old man huffed as he sat down in a corner of the cell, rubbing his forehead like to cool the tension.
Outside their cramped cell, angry and chaotic shouts filled the air. The sound of metal clanging echoed, overshadowing their previous argument. The old man shot a cautious glance toward the barred window.
"Damn fools are at it again…" he muttered, his voice filled with bitterness.
The young man turned his gaze toward the source of the noise, curiosity piqued up. "What's happening out there?"
The old man scoffed. "You really don't know? Fights break out all the time. It's a hellhole in here."
Again, silence hung heavy between them, but this time it felt different, one of mutual understanding rather than anger.
They remain silent as another crash echoed through the prison walls, leaving them alone with their thoughts.
The young man let out a long sigh, feeling a heavy burden on his shoulders. He glanced at the old man, quietly observe the deep lines carved into his aged face.
"What's your name?" He asked, the question slipped out before he could think twice.
The old man turned around, a look of surprise briefly passing over his face. After a short pause, he let out a dry laugh. "Why would you even care?"
"I don't know." The young man replied, shrugging slightly. "Maybe it's because I have nothing else to do."
The old man squinted at him. "Well, knowing my name won't cure your boredom."
"Definitely not, but it could help me get to know who I'm stuck with." The young man replied calmly.
The old man paused for a moment before chuckling. "Alright, kiddo. Frode Veiledal, at your service." He said, sweeping his arm in a mocking bow.
"Frode, huh?" The young man muttered.
"Now it's your turn." Frode said with a mocking smirk. "Or should I just keep calling you 'scum'?"
The young man furrowed his eye upon hearing the question. "I thought you already know who am I?"
"Of course I do."
"Then why are you even asking for my name?" The young man questioned, his face puzzled.
"You dumbass, it's basic manners. Even if I know who you are, you should still had to introduce yourself properly." The old man scoffed.
The young man remained silent for some seconds before releasing a deep sigh. "I've told you repeatedly, I don't remember my name. In fact, I can't remember anything at all."
Hearing this, Frode frowned and rolled his eyes, his voice sounding weary. "So you really don't remember anything, huh? Fine, I guess I will play along with your clueless game."
The young man shook his head. "I told you, I'm not pretending anything!"
Frode observed him closely. "You're truly a stubborn person."
"Whatever, just tell me already."
Frode leaned back against the cold wall, his expression shifting into a mocking one.
"You want to know who you are? You're Isaak Semenov." The old man said, letting the name linger in the air
The young man frowned, trying to grasp the unfamiliar name. "Isaak… Semenov?" He muttered.
Frode nodded slowly, a smirk creeping on his face. "The first son of the Grand Duke of VolkovianEmpire, a noble lineage."
Isaak leaned forward, his face growing more confused. "Noble? You're joking, right?"
Frode's laughter echoed through the cell. "No joke here, kiddo. You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. People bowed at your feet."
As Frode continued, Isaak listened with disbelief.
"But it didn't last long." Frode continued, his eyes narrowing as he got deeper into the story. "You committed genocide, you slaughtered your own clan. No one survived, all of them are dead."
The words struck Isaak like a blow to the gut. He felt a rush of nervous mixed with confusion rise within him. "Genocide? That's insane! I don't remember any of that!"
Frode shrugged as if brushing off Isaak's disbelief. "What do you think they locked you up for? You think it's for stealing bread?"
Isaak shook his head. "No! I mean... I thought it might be something like murder. But this? How could I ever do something like that?"
"But you did it." Frode replied bluntly, he leaning in and look straight into the eyes of Isaak. "Every one of them died because of you. It not just your family, but the servants and guards too."
A mix of emotions crashed over Isaak: he felt anger at Frode for accusing him without proof and fear at what this could mean about himself.
This couldn't be real... How could I not remember anything? I was certain I didn't do anything. He thinks. But… What if I had done something without realizing it?
Isaak slowly stood up as he struggled to process Frode's words. "This doesn't make any sense! You're telling me my hands are stained with blood? That I killed so many people? Include my family too?"
Frode's laughter faded into silence, leaving only a mocking smirk on his face.
"If you're not deaf, then yes, that's exactly what I'm saying." He replied coldy.
Isaak stopped mid-sentence, clenching his fists so tight that his knuckles began to turn white. He felt anger directed at Frode, but deep down, he was too confused and terrified.
"But I can't remember!" He exclaimed, frustration building up as he faced Frode again. "I don't recall anything! Sure, this body could be Isaak Semenov, but it feels completely wrong. Like it's not my body!"
Frode remained unfazed by the outburst, he crossing his arms across his chest.
"I don't know what nonsense you're spilling out." He said calmly, watching as Isaak struggled with his thoughts. "But this is your story whether you like it or not."
The old man's eyes gleamed with mocking, which only fueled Isaak's anger further.
Isaak walk closer to the old man, his heart racing. He shot furious glances at Frode, who watched with amusement.
"How can you sit there and laugh? You think this is funny?" Isaak shouted, each word filled with desperation.
Frode shrugged, a smirk still playing on his lips. "Yeah, it's really funny seeing you still acting clueless like that."
Isaak clenched his fists tighter. "So you're accusing me, ME, of slaughtering my own family and everyone else? How could I possibly do something like that? What kind of monstrous beast am I being painted as?""Maybe a monster acting like he doesn't remember his crime." Frode replied, his voice mocking. "Because after all, you can't feel guilty if you don't recall anything, right? Is that how it works?"
Isaak turned away, rubbing his forehead. "But if I really did all of that… How could I just forget? There has to be something! This whole thing feel so wrong! Too wrong!"
Frode's mockery faded, his expression softening with a flicker of something like pity. "Whether right or wrong, whether you're pretending to be clueless or actually being genuine. You are here. Along with me. Waiting to be executed."
"No! I won't accept this!" Isaak suddenly said, his voice filled with dread. "Tell me, old man. How can I get out of this hellish place!"
However, before Frode could respond, the heavy cell door creaked open. A bulky guard stepped in as he scanned the two men with disdain.
"Time for yard." He grunted, his voice sharp and cold.
Isaak felt a wave of relief mixed with anxiety. Maybe some fresh air would help him clear his mind, or maybe it wouldn't.
"Get moving!" The guard shouted, moving forward and shoving Isaak roughly against the wall.
Isaak stumbled but quickly regained his balance. He glared at the guard while steadying himself.
Frode let out a long sigh as he stood up slowly. "Ah… Here come the playground."
The guard looked at Frode with a piercing gaze and punch him across the face before Isaak could react. The old man hit the ground hard, spitting some blood onto the stone floor.
"How brutal…" Isaak mumbled under his breath, but the guard got accidentally overheard him.
"You got a problem too?" The guard sneered and charged at Isaak without warning. The blow landed directly on Isaak's stomach, making him almost lose his consciousness.
Struggling to breathe and feeling nauseous, Isaak stumbled backward, tripping over the old man's fallen body and fell onto the cold floor next to him.
"Disgusting, why do scum like you even exist?" The guard spat before kicking both men once more. "Get up, before I give you another lesson for misbehaving."
Isaak grunted as pain shot through him again. He looked over at the old man, who also struggled to get up beside him. As their eyes met, instead of fear, Issak see defiance in Frode's eyes.
As they gathered themselves together on the cold floor, breathing heavily and flinching from their wounds, Isaak realized they had one thing in common:
He wanted to survive, and so did the old man. Both of them wanted to survive. And there would be a way for it.
The guard grunted impatiently before grabbing them by their collars and shoving them up roughly from the ground.
"Let's go! Move it!"
Shaken by shock and pain, Isaak felt himself being dragged toward an unknown fate ahead of him. But amidst the chaos swirling within him, and above it all, loomed the relentless question of who he truly was.
He told to himself, he will find out.
The truth, sooner or later, would be his.