Blinding light, piercing screams, relentless pain, and an unyielding need for water and food overwhelmed his senses. A chaotic torrent of sensations flooded his mind—muffled sounds encircled him, while the parched agony in his throat made swallowing nearly impossible. Am I alive? Am I in a hospital? The thought was absurd, but it was his only hope for some rational explanation of the tumult he felt. A part of him urged stillness, to wait until the pain eased and his mind cleared, yet his survival instinct shouted louder. He had to discover where he was.
With great caution, he slowly opened his eyes, uncertain of what awaited him. He hadn't even managed to take in his surroundings before the tip of a whip flashed toward him. A dark streak tore through the air, and in that split second, he realized—this was no hospital. There were no caring doctors here and no treatments waiting; only a brutal reality where someone intended to inflict further misery. He squeezed his eyes shut in protest, but it was too late. The whip's crack became a scorching lash, sending a searing pain through his body. His muscles tensed in reflex, yet he remained oblivious to his tormentor's identity or motives.
"What's happening? What are you doing?" he managed to ask in a feeble, almost inaudible voice that barely cut through the oppressive, heat-shaking air. He couldn't fathom how he had landed in this situation. Before him stretched a boundless desert—an expanse of sand, undulating dunes, and not a hint of civilization. His hands, bloodied and blistered, trembled with exhaustion. Every movement felt like torture, and his sun-scorched, wounded skin burned with every breath.
A mysterious figure loomed above him—a tall silhouette draped in dark robes with a hood that shrouded their face. Before he could glean more details, a searing pain sliced across his back. The whip's sharp crack split the air again, and the sudden blow robbed him of his breath.
"Enough lounging around!" the figure bellowed from above. "If you don't get up and start marching, you'll receive ten more lashes! And if you answer back, we'll see if you have enough strength left for that!"
Alex tried hard to swallow, but his throat felt as dry as cracked earth. The agony pulsed along his back, every nerve ablaze, and exhaustion pounded his head.
"Due to today's forced stop, you'll receive only half rations of water and food. Let's see if that attitude sticks!"
Clenching his teeth, he forced himself to stand. His body rebelled, his legs heavy as lead, but he knew that remaining still would only result in more suffering. He longed to speak up, to demand answers about his location and the identity of these people, yet his cracked, bloodstained lips could only muster feeble, choked whimpers.
"WHAT DID YOU SAY?!"
The whip cracked once more—this time not once, but twice. Alex doubled over under the force of the blows, tears of pain streaming down his face.
"Now! Get back in line, where you belong!"
He had no choice. Gritting his teeth, he dragged his feet and rejoined the line with the other suffering souls. He couldn't tell how long this ordeal would last or where they were being led. Once in line, his instincts compelled him to scan his surroundings, trying to decipher where he was and who his fellow captives were. Their faces were sunburned and etched with exhaustion, dust and sweat marking their resigned expressions—as though hope had long abandoned them.
No one spoke. There was no water. Nothing—except the sun. That never ran out.
When Alex tried to keep walking, his knees buckled. He collapsed again, but a strong hand grabbed his arm and pulled him up. He looked up. The man's face was lined with dust, his eyes empty. He said nothing, just moved on.
Alex tried to recall the last thing before this place. Work? Walking back to home? A tree? Everything was a blur. As if someone had ripped his entire life from his mind. Only this remained: heat, sand, and pain.
He glanced at one of the men walking beside him. An older man, with a vacant stare. Alex gathered what strength he had left and whispered:
— Where are we?
The man didn't even flinch. As if the question hadn't been asked. Or as if there was no point in answering.
They kept walking. Hours passed. Maybe six. Maybe seven. Time lost meaning when the only change was the sun's position in the sky.
At one point, a guard atop one of the hard-skinned beasts gave a signal. The caravan stopped by a dried riverbed. Water? No. The sand was only slightly cooler here. One of the traders stretched a tarp between two stakes, creating a patch of shade for a dozen people.
Alex dropped to his knees. Someone handed him a cup of water—warm, barely moist, but it felt like a gift from the gods. He drank slowly, each swallow burning his throat.
He looked at his hands—wounded, red, trembling. His body no longer belonged to him. It had become a tool of pain, a puppet in the hands of exhaustion.
And yet… something within him endured. A spark.
He clenched his fists. Even if he didn't know where he was. Even if everything had been taken from him—he wouldn't allow himself to die in this desert.