章節 2: Just another day in the mine

The day started as any other ordinary day, below the surface with the shrieking sound from the nearest horn. Despite the many mornings I'd been woken up by it, my ears couldn't quite adjust to it. My sensitive eardrums vibrated in protest and sent a continuing string of painful prickles through my skull, which made it difficult to focus. I slowly opened my exhausted eyes, which hadn't had a single speck of sunlight in them in years and I tried to remove the remnant of dirt and mud from my eyelids. As I did so, I was careful not to get the smudge into my tired eyes and focused on only scratching away what was necessary.

As I stretched my sticklike limbs and raised my arms above me in a long and aching movement, I felt every muscle and joint in my body protest my action and I felt a certain amount of pleasure by the thought. I slowly rise from the soft and muddy floor and pat away the worst of the filth, which I covered myself with last night. With a body as thin as mine, the extra covering works as a good insulator and even though it hardly keeps me warm, it's still better than sleeping with the others in their crowded pile of bodies and grime.

As most of the filth leaves my body and settles on the ground below me, I make sure to give my face a good smudge and run my small, calloused hands over my red curls to spread the remaining clumps of dirt. If you look closely, the red flames of my tressed can seem visible, but the local muck and slime covers them up quite nicely.

As my hands make contact with the floor, I push against it, as the soft ground spreads between my bony pale fingers, and I slowly rise to my aching feet. Even though the work yesterday was hard and unrelenting in its might, it was rewarding in the form of a warm bowl of soup, which was a rare treat down here in the dark. The steam from the broth had tickled my nose and it almost made me forget the horrid smells around me, of people being left in their own feces and misery in these twisting tunnels. The soup even had a small potato swimming in it, which I saved for last so I could savor it. I took my time smelling and feeling it, while I also tried to make it last for as long as possible. One potato was split up in tiny bites as the taste and the chewy consistency spread in my mouth, but it was gone too soon. As the last piece entered my mouth and the taste disappeared from my tongue, a single tear had escaped my left eye as if to betray my outward appearance. I quickly wiped away the evidence of my emotional outburst and erased every trace of it from my face as if it never existed. Emotions get you nothing but trouble down here.

Because of that small but rare potato, I felt as if my body obeyed me a bit better and that my back was a bit straighter. Normally I would be assaulted by the heavy and intense hunger which usually consumed my very being, but today it wasn't so bad. I've been hungry for so many years now that the feeling has become a welcome reminder of me being alive, even though I wouldn't exactly call this "living". It's more like we're "barely existing".

As food, besides moldy bread and bacteria filled water, is a rare sight down here, I quickly learned how to adapt and evolve my habits. Luckily for all of us, this place is a gathering spot for insects and rodents, and sometimes even bats, which makes for quite a hearty meal. If you manage to catch them, that is. Down here charity and sympathy have no reason for existing and the guards which keeps us in line don't even know the meaning of those words. Personally, I find a juicy rat to be quite tasty and the protein of a rat can sustain me for far longer than the insects can. The pelt is a pain to remove, and the tendons can be incredibly chewy but it's not impossible to swallow with enough will and determination. It's been getting easier over the years and now I hardly hesitate. It's just a shame that they're so hard to catch with their flighty moves and quick reflexes. There are positive sides to chasing them around in these unholy tunnels, though. The rats know the tunnels better than we do, even though our chains bind us to this place. I've found quite a few hiding spots and hidden crevices while chasing those little bastards.

When I can't catch a rodent or a bat, the insects are a much easier and approachable prey, when the hunger strikes its angry claws. They're gooey and often slimy on the inside but a welcome treat in these dark and damp tunnels of despair and labor. I know that hunger is as frightening as the eyes of the patrolling guards, and I've also seen how powerful it can be. Hunger can make you do the most unimaginable and horrible things, but you wouldn't have a choice but to obey. Human or beastly morals mean nothing down here and we all know it. We're all sinners but some of us didn't choose to be. Others did that for us.

If you wish to live down here, you won't make it.

If you choose to survive, you have a slight chance.

You just need to throw away your boundaries and ethics and find something to cling to in the darkness, while you do what is necessary.

As I steady myself and my feet sink into the cold and murky floor, my gaze wanders across the sharp and unflinching walls of stone, which surrounds me and my fellow inmates. An intricate pattern of various types of grey and black stones make up the stonewalls, though they are far from smooth. Years of hammering and continued abuse from axes and other tools have scraped away at its surface and left it rough and broken, which only reflects the painful experiences of the slaves being forced to do the work. I am just as broken and abused as the walls which trap me.

As I look up, I see a shaky ceiling about two meters above me, which threatens to fall on me any second, were it not for the wooden beams holding it up. Despite the hefty weight and size of the surface above, the beams usually hold strong and keeps us from being buried alive. Sometimes a fate like that doesn't really frighten me. It almost seems like an easy getaway from this horrid prison, but I haven't quite reached that point of desperation yet.

I'm not that weak.

It's not uncommon for the beams to fall on unsuspecting workers, and trap them below merciless boulders and heavy clouds of sand and dust, while the echoing screams of pain and despair slowly disappear below the rubble. I sometimes wonder whether they find the feeling of their last breath leaving their exhausted and broken body a relief? Maybe even a welcome result. Perhaps or perhaps not. I guess, this is something you only figure out, when you're in that position yourself.

Steps to the right of me alerts me of another's presence and I immediately find myself gazing in the direction of the sound of someone approaching. Slow and heavy steps create echoes in these hollow tunnels, and I soon recognize the person as a welcome friend and mentor. The nearby corner slowly reveals a shivering and vulnerable looking figure, whose steps seem uneven and tired, while a relieved and happy smile quickly spreads on his face. His face is quite thin and is a classic testimony of the lack of nutrients and water, we're being subjected to down here. Despite this, his face still has traces of warmth and kindness, while his big brown eyes have deep and obvious wrinkles around them. If you look closely, it's possible to imagine how much he used to smile from the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth.

He's probably the oldest one of all of us and he seems to like to act like a grandpa. Especially towards us younger ones, which often leads me to believe, that he either has or used to have children or grandchildren living above the surface. I don't dare to ask, since I'm afraid of the answer. Not many of us have any family left above ground and if they're not here, then their whereabouts can be even more frightening.

The years of abuse and the horrible conditions down here has unfortunately also taken its tolls on his body. His back which was once straight and strong is now being pulled downwards by the weight of gravity and his whole body looks like it can crumble from a single push. His short and stubby legs are covered by a pair of loose ill-fitting pants, which probably fit him long ago. His scarred feet are bare and without protection from the filth beneath us as the stones and shards of bone dig deeper into his flesh from below. At the end of his right leg, my eyes land on a sinister looking scar, which testifies to earlier restraint, before the collar was implemented. The scar matches my own apart from the fact that mine is shallower in its depth, while his threatened to carve straight through his leg. This scar reminds us of the fact that we are not free to roam or escape from this hell. The collar just makes sure, we can't. The iron traps us and as the iron only gets tighter with the years, we slowly succumb to its grip.

With his every step, his ankle wobbles slightly together with the rest of his body, which now has even more wounds than I can count. A smaller wound on his thigh still hasn't closed properly and blood slowly trickles down and feeds the ever-hungry floor on which we are forced to tread. As I raise my eyes, I can't but grimace at the sight of the collar around his vulnerable neck. I subconsciously lift my own hand and stroke that same collar, though this one adorns my own pale throat.

Despite of our situation, his smile has never lost its shape and I can still find small specks of mischief and hope in his tired eyes, which probably also makes him stronger than all of us combined.

As he approaches me, he carefully puts a pale but strong arm around my thin shoulders, as if he doesn't have a care in the world.

"So, this is where you're hiding, Cassius! With my old heart, I shouldn't have to search for you this early in the morning every day, you know?" Elon is more than a friend and more like my only remaining family down here. He practically raised me by himself and taught me how to survive, just like he did for so many other kids, who were too young to understand their new life. For me, who struggle to remember the faces of my parents, he is the person, I lean on for support. His voice soothes me in a way only family can do to you and his words sends a glimmer of warmth through my beating heart.

I was very young when I arrived here and, I still am. This place forces you to grow up quickly and since I arrived when I was only four, I had a lot to learn and even more to hide. Elon didn't know who I was or how I managed to end up down here, but he immediately took me under his wing and introduced me to the others, who are like us.

He also taught me how to keep a low profile. A low profile is a necessity down here if you don't want to catch the eyes of the predators. The hunger and the unspeakable work conditions aren't the most frightening thing in these tunnels. The predators with human faces are the ones you should stay clear of no matter what. At least hunger doesn't discriminate or choose its victims, when claiming a life.

He also taught me a few other skills like catching rodents and insects as well as a few other talents, he thought I might need some day. Since I'm now slowly approaching the age of 12, my original fearful demure has changed quite a lot. 8 years in hell will do that to you.

"I never asked you to find me every morning so stop your complaining, grandpa! Besides, your snoring would keep me awake if I slept with the rest of you in that stinky pile", I say.

My mouth slowly cracks in a languid smile, and it gets even wider as Elon shakes his head in a tired manner. In the beginning I always stayed near Elon, which is why I started out sleeping in the pile together with the rest of them. They all huddle together and sleep up against each other, which is why I refer to it as the "pile". It's basically just a pile of people sleeping together and I'm not comfortable with it anymore. They do it since it brings them a sense of safety, warmth, and security, but I only get the urge to disappear and find a much quieter and more secluded spot to rest my eyes and body. It's probably also, due to the fact, that the smells intensify when so many people huddle together, and my nose can't take it. The others find it safer and calming and they tend to tease me a bit for my preference to solitude.

Elon looks at me for a while and as the resounding horn once again shakes the unsteady walls of the tunnels, we start walking towards the start of our day.

As Elon and I move to the beat of the surrounding torches on the walls, our breathing sends small clouds of cold smoke into the tunnel. The clouds are soft and vulnerable, and it doesn't take long before they vanish into thin air, only to be replaced by new ones. Each little cloud of air is expendable.

Just like us.

The cold cover us in a layer of shivers and our thin rags cannot keep out the chill of our surroundings. The closer we get to our destination, the colder it gets. If only clothes were provided, but we're even denied that small reprieve in our daily torture.

Positivity is what drives us, or at least that's what the guards usually say. According to them, we don't have anything else worth driving us, since we're just an expendable workforce. I do see their point, but it's not easy being positive down here.

As the flickering torches pass us by, it illuminates both of our faces in their warm glow, but they also cast a hesitating light across the lonely tunnels. As the light touches the surfaces, it also leaves other places looking even darker and more pronounced. Crevices and tiny cracks in the stone look lifeless and abandoned and I can't help comparing them to our situation. It's easy to overlook and ignore the darkness if the light is bright enough in other places. I guess, things only look brighter when there's something darker and worse you can either compare it to, or if you are unaware of its existence. Immediately I start hating the torches which is all kinds of irrational, but I can't help it. We didn't choose to live in the dark but that's just how it is. And since we live in the dark, that makes us the villains. And villains can never belong in the light.

I try to keep my raging emotions under control, but a quick glance from Elon's warning eyes exposes my thoughts and I immediately remove every trace of it from my features. You never know who is watching and the guards don't need a reason to punish you. They just do, but it's better to keep it as safe as possible. Any excuse could be fatal.

The tunnel in front of us suddenly expands and reveals a big cavity, where a large group of people slowly gather in masses. The ceiling is about the same height as the rest of the tunnels surrounding us, but the actual space is much wider since we've been continuously digging here for years upon years. In here, the light is distributed by seemingly fireproof lanterns of metal and thick glass, which are placed roughly around the room. It's obvious that they can't illuminate the entire space, but they still desperately try to.

As soon as we cross the threshold to the room, I feel an immediate relief upon my traumatized nose, as the air clears up a tiny fraction. It's only at this moment that I'm reminded of how filthy and revolting the living conditions in the tunnels really are. The difference in smell is a testament to that, since this room has a small vent in the top to hoist up the mined materials. There's still a slight undertone of decay and rot but at least it's somewhat bearable.

As my lungs absorb the air around me, I can vaguely smell a hint of icy waters and fluffy snow-covered hills, which means that winter still has a tight grip on us. Luckily the temperature down here doesn't drop too much, but it's not unheard of for someone to freeze to death, though it's quite rare. This is also why a lot of us sleep in small groups and piles, but I've rarely felt comfortable with it. I only join them when the cold becomes too severe and by this smell, there must be a lot of snow up there. I might have to join the others the next few days, though the thought makes me grimace internally. If you were to look at my face, you'd only see a slight ripple in the left corner of my mouth, which contorts in displeasure.

My memory of snow is almost non-existent, but Elon has tried to describe its fluffy nature and changing texture to me. He told me that snow can be formed into shapes and figures but that it falls from the sky in soft and fragile flakes in various patterns, which reflect the light. It seems wondrous to me.

All along the walls, you'll find remnants of pickaxes and shovels scraping away at the rocks and the precious materials they hide. The ugly markings slither across the walls like vengeful snakes, like the scars which adorns our own bodies. Boxes with tools and whatnot are placed messily on the ground and are once again ready to be used to torture the walls with.

As our tools have hacked away at the surrounding walls and the room has slowly expanded to the rhythm of our fading heartbeats, the risks involved also unfortunately follows suit. The room is essentially just a large hole, shaped like a round bowl, while the aching ceiling gets increasingly unstable. We've added more and more wooden beams over time to stabilize it, but as cracks started to appear in the beams, it also became increasingly obvious, that they cannot hold it for long. This room will collapse on top of us soon and we can only continue to dig, hack and hammer at it. Not exactly the best motivation, but what can we do?

The room has multiple doors, whereas one leads to the surface above our heads, which is placed on the opposite side from the tunnel, where we stay during non-working hours. This door, made of finely molted metal and hinges, creaks ominously whenever it opens and grates on the ears of whomever is nearby. The smells however, which reaches our noses, whenever it opens, creates hope and memories of a better life. A thick lock adorns it and makes it impossible for anyone to slip out, without the guards escorting you. A few meters to the right of that door, there's a slightly smaller door, which leads to the common area of the guards. Though I've never personally walked through that door, I do know what's in there. They are living disgustingly carefree with soft furniture and pristine floors, which has never seen a speck of filth or the horrors which follow our heartbroken shadows. It almost seems hypocritical. They call us the filthy ones, but they are the ones who made us so, but they still get to pretend, that it doesn't affect them.

The last door is placed closer to our tunnels and is about the same size as the entrance to this hellish place. While a lot of us have seen the inside of that horrible chamber, a lot have also never returned from there. The guards like to call this room "The Playroom" but to us, it's the very source for our fear and grief. That room is filled with echoes of immorality and wronged souls, and even standing here looking at it from afar, makes my stomach quiver. I've only been there once and that was enough for my entire lifetime, and I still have the scars to prove it.

I am one of the few lucky ones, who returned.

As we slowly enter the giant space, the people around us register our entrance with a quick glance, and then most of their hazy eyes return to the soil beneath their scarred feet. Every day we gather in this darkened room by the sound of the horn, and in some ways, this morning ritual has become an ideal way to stay updated on the small and big matters happening in our little cozy prison. As my gaze slowly moves from one familiar face to the next, I take note of every single change that might have happened in the few hours, I haven't seen them. We're all different in height, age, and our general appearance, while our eyes all have a varying degree of hopelessness and despair. As the prisoners huddle together in small groups, it's quite easy to spot the ones, who have been here the longest, since this prison quickly eats away at your body in huge mouthfuls of muscle tissue and body mass.

When I look at them, I can't help but think, that if they were to stand on their hands, the only thing that would give it away would be their head, since their thighs are almost thinner than their pale arms on their torso. It's kind of funny to imagine, since there's a desperate need of entertainment for the prisoners down here, but we barely even have enough energy to get up in the morning. I guess, your sense of humor kind of contorts to your surroundings. Mine definitely has.

The clothes that once fit their bodies are hanging loosely on their exhausted frames, while even the threads, which are trying desperately to hold the smudged fabric together, is giving up. I look down at myself and my own clothes, which only consist of a long tunic, that I "borrowed" from someone, who doesn't need it anymore. If I look closely at the tired fabric, I can almost spot the vertical stripes, that once adorned it, but time has mostly erased all traces of them. It seems huge on my tiny frame and reaches all the way down to my bulking knees. As I walk, I can feel the shorts beneath it and while they capture some of the escaping body heat, they also happen to itch terribly on my skin. My bare feet used to be covered with small shoes of soft leather and string, but I ended up growing out of them, despite the lack of nutrients in my diet. In this place, shoes are a valuable treasure, which are hard to come by. This also means that whenever an opportunity arises, where shoes suddenly become available, things can get a bit rowdy.

When my shoes got so tight on my growing feet, that blisters threatened to form, I chose to go barefoot. Since it would have been a shame to throw away the shoes, I've hidden them away with some of my other "gatherings". I like to collect things in my very little freetime. I would even go so far as to call it a hobby of mine, even though there's hardly anything in my collection to marvel at.

Though the people here are a sorrowful sight, and their lack of a proper future is obvious, some of them still manage to keep a somewhat ordinary attitude to it all. At least I think, I would describe it as ordinary by my standards. We have our own groups and hierarchies here and they can easily be split into different categories according to their attitude and characteristics.

First and foremost, we have the ones who have lost all senses of their former selves, which means that they're basically just an empty shell on sticklike legs. Their eyes are empty of any emotion and their faces no longer have the ability to change their expressions, which can hardly be blamed on them. We usually just call them "The Shells", since they have nothing left inside of them besides malfunctioning organs and empty stomachs. One of these shells is currently on the edge of the group standing in a slight crouch, while his small, calloused hands are hanging loosely along his sides. His name is Victor and he arrived here a year later than me and we're probably around the same age if you compare our heights.

When Victor first arrived here, I remember his trembling frame and the way he used to hide away in obvious corners whenever he saw a guard, or an overseer come close to his workstation. His straight blond hair, which had been touched by the surrounding dust had turned the color of a withering cornfield, but it still managed to catch the watchful eyes of the guard Bronco, whom you should avoid at all cost.

When you're stuck in an underground prison, it should be obvious that you can't hide anywhere. If you do try, and if you do it as often as Victor did, you're just drawing unnecessary attention to yourself, which kind of negates the whole point of trying to hide. If you want to hide here, you must blend in with the crowd, and Victor never got the chance to understand that. When a guard such as Bronco has his attention on you, you're like an ant stuck underneath a magnifying glass in the raging sun. You're bound to get burned sooner or later under its scrutiny.

That evening so long ago, we heard that Victor never returned to the tunnels to sleep after work. While we did hear echoes of a terrified scream echoing through the halls throughout the night, nobody seemed to question it. It's nothing new to our ears and everybody knew that the screams came from The Playroom. Rumors started to circulate through the curious tunnels and each rumor was more horrifying than the next, as if these rumors served as a rare form of entertainment. As the days passed, Victor was suddenly back to work as if he'd always been there, but it seemed as if it wasn't all of him that returned.

As his pickaxe hammered methodically away at the walls in long focused strokes, his sleeves would fall below his elbows to reveal the still bleeding marks from an unmerciful whip below them. His staggering walk whenever he moved to a new position, told grizzly tales, and guesses about his treatment, while the handprint which adorned his exposed throat was left as a gaping warning to himself and the rest of us. In the flickering light from the nearby torches, it had looked like a sinister and an inescapable collar, which threatened to take his life any moment. His eyes were left empty and devoid of any naive soul resting in them, while his body just kept hammering, collecting, and working. The only time, when his eyes show a subtle change, is when Bronco comes to collect him, and a hint of fear passes through his pupils. While I might be wearing a physical collar, Victor was suddenly wearing a psychological one in the form of violence.

He hasn't spoken a word since this happened.

The shells are usually the leftovers from the other groups, which can be divided into war prisoners who were either captured or kidnapped from other countries, rebels, and traitors who for some reason tried to work against the government either by violent or verbal acts and criminals who were convicted of a variety of crimes such as theft, murder, child molesting and/or rape. The criminals are often also chosen to act as the guards' stooges and in exchange, they get a few more privileges than the rest of us. They might get more nutritious food or warmer clothes to wear, but they are also often chosen to help them oversee our work and, in some cases, even punish us. The guards also tend to act a lot more lenient towards their stooges, so it's best to just stay the hell away from them.

In my mind, they're just snitches who are too cowardly and prideless to try and survive on their own, so they choose to become the oppressor instead of the oppressed. They're all cowards, the lot of them.

Then there's the final group of prisoners, which is both the smallest and the most suppressed of them all. Not only does the guards and our capturers despise the very existence of this particular group but even their fellow inmates believe them to be a scourge and a curse. Something which cannot and should not exist since they cannot be controlled. They're a threat.

In this group, you'll find men of all ages, color, and background but they all have one thing in common, which is their crime of being born different and the collar, which covers their neck. The collar is made of dark metal and the very material, we're digging for. Small spikes on the inside, serve as an uncomfortable reminder, but even suppressed, this group is still stronger and more durable than an average human. If they weren't wearing those hateful collars, you would be able to see them, as they really are in all their glory. With the collar suppressing them, they almost look human but the ferocious look in their eyes and the strength that still fuels their bodies, give them away. A chained lion in a cage is still a lion, no matter how you look at it. If you're not careful, it'll have a taste, when you least expect it.

The hypocritical guards call these people abominations, but they are beautiful in their savagery and graceful violence.

I call them family.

It is, of course, also the group, that my humble self belongs to and it's the group, which has the most children in it, or cubs as we call them. Only the rebels have more children, since the fault of the parents, is the fault of the children. This means that, if the parents are of a particular birth, race, or occupation, which doesn't sit right with certain people, then the whole family have sinned and need to be punished. This is also the reason why, you'll see adult men having a child, or maybe even children, following them around down here. In my mind, those children are somewhat lucky, since they at least have their fathers to protect them, while a lot of us arrived here without the comfort of a parent.

You'll never meet the eyes of a protective mother in this place though, since the women and daughters are usually placed someplace else, and no one here wants to imagine their fate. The knowledge would only further your insanity.

In a way, I should perhaps count myself lucky, since I at least have Elon and the other people from my group. As soon as I, and some of the other poor souls from that particular delivery arrived, Elon took me under his wing without even hesitating. The other beasts have always been surprisingly friendly and welcoming towards me, which might just be an instinct in them, since I was very young when I arrived. Some would say that these people practically raised me, but most of the credit still goes to Elon. Imagine growing up in a family consisting of an angry grandpa and a lot of fussy uncles as well as a few clingy cousins, and then stuff all of that into hell on earth. Then you have my childhood. It sounds quite lovely, doesn't it?

By my count yesterday, there were 491 adults and 52 children alive in this place, which sums up to 708 prisoners of either war, rebellions, traitors, outcasts, or crime, whereas most of them are human. The surface above has deemed and judged all of us to be unfit for society and unworthy of the shining light, we're currently being denied.

We spend most of our time in this room and it is clearly visible by the almost flat ground beneath us. Most of the tunnels are filled with mud and all kinds of filth, which clings to our limbs and creeps underneath our toenails, while this room seems almost dry in comparison. The sharp stones which fall from the walls, when we strike them with our tools, are always threatening to cut our feet open and it's not unusual for this to happen on a regular basis. If you do get a cut, you can only hope that it doesn't get infected when you return to the other tunnels. I have seen how a small cut, barely bigger than my fingernail started off by having a slight surrounding redness, which seemed harmless by itself. Over time it slowly spread further, and yellow pus started to fester in the wound as the pain increased. Small unmerciful lines of red started to spread from the infected wound and as the lines increased the wound got bigger and uglier in its wrath.

That small cut ended up taking his life.

As Elon and I make our way over to the middle of our usual group, we go our separate ways as Elon likes to confer with the other elders in the morning. If you look at our group from a distance, it might seem messy and disorganized, but if you were to look at us from the top, you will quickly see the pattern. On the outer ring of the group, there's the elders and older males, who form a protective circle, while the children gather in a slightly tight clump in the middle. As I move towards the middle, I choose to go between Abir and Mathias, who are both adult males in their early thirties.

Abir is the type of guy, who always has a slight frown on his handsome face, but his yellow eyes on the other hand, carries a hint of humor, which softens them a lot. I've never seen him turn his anger towards me, but I bet his eyes would flash like the torches on the walls, if he were to be challenged. He's extremely tall and towers over most of the people here and even though he's as thin as the string that holds up his dirty pants, the underlying muscle beneath his skin still threatens to pounce. His hair is made of soft and bouncy curls, the color of toasted bread and I'm always reminded of my hunger when I look at it.

Mathias on the other hand is quite average in height with calm blue eyes and hair as black as the surrounding darkness. His hair doesn't absorb the light as the darkness around us does though, but instead reflects it in a slight shimmer of purple. He has sharp cheekbones and a little dimple on the right side of his mouth, while his body is more on the lean side, as opposed to Abir who is on the muscled side of the scale. I smile as I approach them, and they quickly spot me in the crowd.

"Where have you been Cassius? We missed you at game night yesterday!" Abirs' voice is gentle in its teasing and a genuine curiosity can be found in it. We don't exactly know the names of the days down here since it's too easy to lose track. Some of the adults in our group, especially Abir and the other fathers, were worried that we as children couldn't experience a proper childhood and learn how "to play". Abir therefore had the idea, that every 4th day is game day, which means that all of us gather in smaller groups of adults and children and play certain games for a short while before sleeping. Personally, I prefer the stick-gambling and the beetle-races, but they also taught us how to play tag and hide-and-go-seek, though I refused to participate in those.

"I have to give you an opportunity to win sometimes, shouldn't I? I wouldn't want to take away all of your stones, since I'm too kind for that." As my words reached their ears, Mathias burst out laughing and put his heavy arm over my shoulders. As he leans on me and put his fingers in my hair in a warm gesture, his scent surrounds me and it immediately relaxes my tensed nerves, as the sense of being with family settles over me. It's as if a warm fluffy blanket suddenly lands gently on my body in a soothing manner.

"He's right, Abir. You had such a good chance yesterday, so how did you still manage to lose?" Mathias and Abir are always like this, and it actually make our mornings seem almost normal. If you leave out all of the death, hunger and torture, of course.

"Argh, fuck off Math! You lost more than me anyway, so you shouldn't talk! As if you never lost to him. You really shouldn't talk." As the twinkle in Abirs' eyes got deeper, his eyes met mine and he made a small playful wink, before he looked back at Mathias in a relaxed manner.

"I promise, I'll join you next time, but be prepared to empty your pockets!" I suddenly said, as their bickering continued. If I let them, they could continue like this for hours and then I'd never get through them, before the guards arrive, and the work starts. Of course, when I say, I'll empty their pockets, it's complete bullshit. None of us really have pockets and we also don't have anything to put in them, even if we did. We usually just collect some shattered pieces of stones from the tunnels and have those act as the game-pieces. Sometimes we do raise the stakes a bit though, just for fun. The prize in these cases are usually beetles, spiders, and other types of insects, which has a lot of protein in them, compared to our daily rations. I would even go so far, as to say, that they even taste better, than the trash they pour in our bowls.

As both of their eyes turned to my face, they both showed their teeth in goofy grins, as they accepted my challenge.

"You're on, Cass! Just don't cry later when you lose all of your dignity!" As Mathias finishes his declaration of challenge, he lifts his arm from my shoulders and gently pats my head. He then pushes me behind them with a slight nudge, which sends me towards the other children. As I look over my shoulder at their broad protective backs, they quickly step back to the original position and close the protective circle once again, as if that would be enough to keep us alive down here. Their warm and caring gaze, which I received from them, is now nowhere to be found.

I turn my head back towards the other children gathered here and I immediately feel a sense of protective instinct flow through me. Though I am still a child by Abir and Mathias' standards, I've been here for longer, than a lot of them. As my gaze wanders from one small face to the next, a small child just about 6 years old bounces his way towards me in an almost happy manner. At least by the standards of this place. Even though he's as thin as the rest of us, he still manages to have a pudgy face with round cheeks adorned with small specks of red on them and soft blue eyes, which you can't help but find adorable. His hair matches his fathers' in its blackness, but I've been told that the aggressive curls are from his mother. He is Mathias' youngest son of three, but the other two are believed to have escaped in time. His name is Michael and as his small feet carries him in my direction, I spread my arms in an affectionate manner to welcome his warmth.

"Cassius! You promised to play hide-and-seek with me yesterday, but you never came! Why didn't you come? I waited a long time and then I didn't get to play! You're so mean..." His pudgy face had a wronged expression on it as he complains, and I suddenly feel a little guilty for not keeping my promise to him. As his arms hugs my stomach, I squeeze him in a tight hug, as I answer.

"I'm sorry, Squirt! I had something to do but I promise that I'll play with you next time, alright?" My words don't seem to satisfy him, as I watch him cross his arms in a displeased manner to look angry. I just find him cute, and I can't help smiling at him.

"I'll only believe you, if you pinky promise!" His hopeful voice enters my ears, and his shy look is enough for me to reach out and gently pinch his red cheeks. They are always extremely soft to the touch like the top of a bowl of water. As soon as I finish my pinching, I hold out my hand in front of his little face and stretch out my pinky towards him.

"I pinky promise". As his small pinky wrap itself in mine, a smile blossoms on Michaels' lips and his eyes light up in a delighted arch. Everything in this moment feels so serene and innocent, I am almost swept up in that cozy feeling of being content. As if on cue, a single shout brings me out of my illusion as the guards enter the room, followed by the scheduled overseer of the day.

Another day in the mine and another day in hell has finally started.