The mattress sagged beneath Rory as he woke, the springs groaning under his weight. The room smelled faintly of mildew and old alcohol, a scent so embedded into the walls it felt like it would outlive him. Light from the single cracked window sliced through the darkness, illuminating the peeling wallpaper and scattered remnants of last night's shouting match.
"Get up! You're late again, you useless lump," his mother's voice snapped from the doorway, sharp and grating. She didn't enter his room anymore; she was used to hiding, out of reach of his father's drunken ire. This habit of avoidance followed her when she interacted with others, Rory included.
Rory didn't respond. He stared at the ceiling for a moment longer, counting the cracks that had multiplied since last week. One, two, three—a spiderweb of fault lines, all leading to nothing. He rose slowly, the bed groaning in protest, and dressed in silence. His clothes smelled faintly of cigarettes, a victim of passive smoking.
As he stepped out of his room, his father's bulk dominated the old couch in the living room. The man's chest rose and fell with the rhythm of deep, alcohol-soaked sleep. An empty bottle rolled lazily under the coffee table, nudged by Rory's shoe as he passed.
For a moment, Rory froze. His father's face was slack, but it didn't matter. The memory was there, vivid and unwelcome. His father's hands weren't clumsy in those moments - they were precise, deliberate, and cruel. Rory rubbed at his scar instinctively, the jagged line running from his forehead to his cheekbone a permanent reminder of the man's rage.
He exhaled slowly, his chest tight, and forced himself to move. The apartment door creaked open, and the familiar sound of slum life spilled in. Voices raised in argument, the distant hum of an overworked generator, the clatter of metal against concrete.
The streets of the slum were alive in the way dying things often were. The people were noisy, frantic, desperate. Rory kept his head down, his bag slung over one shoulder, and threaded his way through the crowd. The air here was thick with the scent of fried food and sweat, but it felt fresh compared to his home, so he liked it anyway.
He turned a corner and slowed his pace. Ahead, a group of thugs blocked the road, their laughter sharp and predatory.
"You're late," one thug sneered, grabbing the shopkeeper's collar. "Where's this month's protection money?"
"I… I paid everything I had last week," the shopkeeper stammered, his voice trembling. His cart was piled with small sacks of grains, wilted vegetables, and a few tins of cheap cooking oil. "Please, I had to buy food for my children. They're starving…"
The thug rifled through the cart, picking up a sack of rice and hefting it like a trophy. "Not our problem," he said coldly. "You sell stuff here, you pay. Or maybe we take something else instead?"
Another thug grabbed a small tin of cooking oil, inspecting it before tucking it under his arm. "Guess this'll do for now," he said with a smirk, tossing a couple of potatoes to the ground as he did so.
The shopkeeper dropped to his knees, pleading. "Please, I have nothing left! My kids need this to survive!"
The first thug shoved him backward, sending him sprawling. "Then tell your kids you're too broke to keep them alive," he said, his voice dripping with mockery.
The others laughed, their voices echoing through the street as they pocketed their spoils. They pocketed sacks of rice and tins of cooking oil, carelessly tossing aside the wilted vegetables as if they held no value.
Rory's eyes flicked to the side. A narrow alley offered escape, and without hesitation, he slipped into its shadowed confines. He pressed his back to the wall, his breathing steady despite the tension coiling in his chest. From this angle, he could still see the scene unfold.
The shopkeeper pleaded, his voice cracking. The thug shoved him hard enough to send him sprawling onto the ground, and Rory's stomach tightened involuntarily. His mind flashed unbidden to another figure - his father, towering and drunk, his fists heavy and cruel.
The memory stirred something bitter in Rory, but he swallowed it down. He didn't move, didn't speak. Instead, he watched silently, his fingers curling into loose fists. In the slums, you either found sick joy in life, usually by hurting others, or wished you were dead due to constant oppression.
The thugs eventually grew bored, scattering after taking what they deemed valuable, their laughter lingering like smoke in the air. Rory waited until the street cleared before stepping out and continuing on his way, unbothered by the cruelty anymore. It was just a normal day.
Their departure left the shopkeeper hunched on the ground, his head in his hands, staring at the few remaining scraps left scattered at his feet.
---
School was a blur of voices and movement, none of it aimed at Rory. The classroom buzzed with the chatter of classmates who were more preoccupied with their own struggles. Most weren't as miserable as Rory, but their tired eyes and patched clothes betrayed lives that weren't easy either.
He took his usual seat at the back, close to the window. The glass was smudged with fingerprints and dust, but it offered a view of the world outside a half full parking lot; Rory liked the way the morning sun sparkled on the single relatively new car there. He never noticed the sun outside besides that time.
Rory stared out, the lesson washing over him like static. His parents didn't send him here to learn; as long as he ate the free sandwich provided by the government and spared them a few bucks, he was an excellent student in their opinion. It was good to excel in something.
Rory's thoughts were louder than the teacher's voice, more insistent. He watched as a stray dog picked its way through the trash below, its ribs stark against its fur. It paused, sniffing at something before moving on, its head low. Perhaps some creatures had it worse than Rory. Perhaps not.
The day passed in pieces. Rory drifted from class to class, his mind elsewhere, until he found himself alone in the cafeteria. He sat at a table by the window, his bag on the chair beside him, and stared at his reflection in the glass. The scar stood out, pale against his skin, a reminder etched into his very being.
Outside, the slums stretched on endlessly, a patchwork of rusted metal and ugliness. Rory's eyes followed the cracks in the glass, tracing paths that led nowhere. He touched the edge of his scar lightly, his expression unreadable.
Rory glanced at the untouched sandwich on the tray before him. The bread was stale, its edges dry and curling, while the thin layer of cheese inside barely seemed real. He picked it up, his hands moving automatically, but stopped short of taking a bite.
"What's the point?" he murmured, his voice so low it dissolved into the empty room. His fingers tightened briefly before setting the sandwich back down. Hunger gnawed at him, but it felt distant, unimportant - just another ache to add to the pile. Today he won't excel in his school life, he decided, he will be a total failure instead.
He stared out the window again, his reflection a ghostly outline against the sprawling slums. The scar on his face caught the light, stark and pale, a cruel etching of his past. "What's the point?" He repeated his question, still having no answer.
---
The bell rang, signaling the end of the day, but Rory didn't move immediately. He lingered by the window, watching the light shift as the sun dipped lower in the sky. When he finally rose, he wondered whether to return home, or perhaps he could hang outside until someone beat him for rubbing them the wrong way.
The school bell echoed faintly in Rory's ears as he stepped out onto the cracked pavement. His classmates scattered in different directions, their laughter and arguments blending into the usual hum of the slums. Rory hung back, his bag slung carelessly over his shoulder.
It was empty, and his parents hadn't given it to him. The bag was black and dirty, one strap torn — probably the reason it had been tossed in the street last year. But Rory liked it. The bag made him almost look normal among the other students carrying bags of their own.
The sun hung low, casting long, jagged shadows across the alleyways. Rory's feet moved automatically, leading him away from the busier streets. The noise, the people, the suffocating closeness of it all – he ignored them all.
He cut through an overgrown park, the benches warped and unstable, the air still and heavy as if it held its breath. He liked this path. It was quieter. It demanded nothing of him. The people of the slums didn't have the luxury of sitting in a park on sunny days, and those who did mostly lay on the ground motionlessly after an overdose.
Then the world seemed to exhale. A low rumble vibrated through the ground, stopping Rory mid-step. The trees around him trembled, their brittle branches quivering like startled animals. He turned slowly, his chest tightening as the sound grew. A sudden Awakening of heat rolled over him, pushing the air out of his lungs and dropping him to his knees.
A second passed. Then another. Rory looked up. The world had not ended, but it had changed. Rory just couldn't explain how.