What exactly was the Gulag? A question I’ve heard far too much. A question most didn’t even know existed. A question that made me remember some of the worst times in my life. No, they were the worst times in my life.

As I sat there with Rina, who was still and quiet, I came to realize why I hated it so much. It wasn’t the pain and suffering I went through. Nor was it the number of lives lost inside the prison walls. It’s what it stole from me. Things I don’t think I’ll ever be able to find again.

I told Rina everything, starting with the first day I was thrown in, nearly hours after I was torn away from my precious home, family, and everything I ever came to know and love.

“Rina,” I said, “Listen closely. Because after I tell you what happened, I don’t want to ever tell this story again.”

She nodded, so I took that as my sign to begin.

…

I was only around ten years old at the time. I was a soft-spoken, lonesome boy. My mother had just passed, but I kept that story locked up for another day. However, the toll and burden it placed upon my soul would drag me down like an anchor.

After my town was ransacked and massacred, the king’s soldiers took any kids left alive as hostages. Or so, that’s what I thought at the time. Over the years, my assumptions changed, and things became more clear. They used us—children—to satisfy their urge for entertainment and stupid games that only led to more pain and anguish.

I was thrown inside a small cell in the deep layers beneath King Richard II’s castle. At the time, the King sat atop the throne of Harvoria; the country which I loved so dearly. And he ruled it like another page in his playbook.

In my cell, floors were made of dry cement, and the walls were made of purely forged steel and packed mud. For the majority of the prisoners, a bucket was given for bathroom needs, and we would get one bowl of groggy brown liquid with dirt-smeared water as our daily nutrition. It wasn’t the worst thing-... No, it was by far the worst thing imaginable. If death had a taste, this tasted worse. I called it slop. Although the term slop was like a flower compared to its gruesome taste. For the first few months, there wasn’t a day that passed where I wasn’t on the floor hurdling my stomach as the slop made its way through my body.

Cells were placed next to each other, and I made some friends along the way to my right and left cell bars. Every month the cells would switch, and I’d make more friends, calling out to my previous ones on the other side of the lightless hall between us. We’d play games we came up with to pass the time, and we soon began making fun of the wardens patrolling us.

However, all fun and games came to an end when the Gulag was introduced. Everyone in the cell’s called it the devil’s lair. I personally didn’t care for what it was called, as for me it was where nightmares were made, and fear itself wasn’t enough to give this place a proper name.

The Gulag was a circular chamber-like room in the center of all the cells. Walls were made of pure concrete, layered with barbed wire and dry blood scattered from left to right. The ceiling was too high to even think of reaching, but I could always see the second, third, and even higher floors looking down on us. I couldn’t see the people watching, but I always assumed it was just more wardens or wealthy men who paid to see the special underground arena.

Every week, two random prisoners were chosen to be placed inside the Gulag. The goal was simple: The last one remaining gets to stay alive. How that goal was to be achieved completely rested inside the prisoners’ hands.

So, prisoners—those in my position—began massacring each other without a single thought telling them otherwise. The wardens—those who monitored, observed, and dictated everything and all inside the prison walls—watched and laughed, while the ones in the cells prayed on god’s doorstep they wouldn’t be put in next. Competitors were chosen at random, with winners being placed not too long after their very first match. I was lucky to avoid being chosen for quite some time. Nevertheless, my placing was impossible to avoid, and I was thrown into the devil’s lair like a pig out of place.

My first time inside the Gulag I was facing a friend I had made on the first day. His name was Clouse, and he too had lost his family in the War. I remember the look me and Clouse had as our eyes danced across our surroundings. I remember the smell of blood and sweat filling the air like fog on a humid day. I remember my hands trembling with fear as I began to cry in front of anyone who was watching, “I-I d-don’t want to f-fight.” My voice was broken, shattered like a piece of glass. It was treacherous.

Clouse however, didn’t even hesitate to pick up a small rock off the cold Gulag floor. So much for a friend I thought I had. Luckily, seeing me crying stopped him from attacking, and a warden made his presence around us.

The warden was a tall, skinny looking man with no signs of feeling pity or mercy. He wore a strange uniform I don’t remember too well, and his hair remained hidden underneath some sort of general’s cap.

He looked down on me, hitting me with a stale wooden paddle and talking to me like a pile of trash. “If you don’t fight. No food or water for five days. Then you die of starvation in your cell.” His voice was stern, merciless in every way.

I grasped onto his leg, crying onto the soft leather of his buckled boots, “P-please! Anything but fighting!” I sniffled and sobbed, my dirty hands scratching at his pants.

The man drew a smile, then kicked me off into the barbed wire on the walls. “No food or water for five days then.”

The pain that struck my back didn’t even faze me, and I thanked him with every fiber of my life. The measly fibers that kept my life in one piece, on the border of ripping and placing me on death’s front door.

The first day without food or water was surprisingly quite easy, and I slept for most of the day, keeping quiet to myself. The second day became a little harder, and I started feeling aches and pains my stomach kept throwing at me. Sleeping was tough, but the thirst was tougher.

The third day I couldn’t sleep, and the hunger finally started to kick in. Pins and needles prickled inside my stomach walls, and my own saliva became as dry as a barrel of dirt. By the fourth day, I began to lick the walls in hopes of finding a small bug that might have lost its place. Migraines tortured my skull, and my body wouldn’t dare to move a single muscle.

The fifth day... I don’t even want to talk about the pain I felt. There wasn’t a single thing worse than the dryness in my mouth, and the emptiness inside my body. My eyes were dead, my body moaned, and my lips felt as if they would fall right off with a single touch. I don’t know how I was still alive. I distinctly remember my heart beating about twenty times in a single minute, waiting for that final beat to strike and knock me out for good.

Somehow, I managed to wake on the sixth day to a bowl of slop and dirt-smeared water. I looked at it for almost an hour or so before I managed to gather the strength to even reach for it.

When it entered my mouth, most of it spilled on the ground, as my jaw wouldn’t move to close the food inside. However, once that first taste of dirt enveloped amidst my taste buds, my body rejected it. I puked up whatever entered, and I reached for the water after. It was terrible, but it was well worth the stomach cramps I’d experience for the next couple of days.

Every other week I was chosen to fight, and every time I would decline my participation. I was so fatigued and dismayed that I didn’t even realize my friends disappearing beside me day after day. My body fought against hunger, but my strength and mind deteriorated with every passing hour.

Three years it took. Three years it took for me to gain enough willpower to treat my life as normal from now on, and realize what was truly going on. I also heard a rumor spreading amongst the prisoners that the war had ended in my first month inside the Gulag, meaning the last three years of captivity have been outside the public’s eye. That’s when the final layer of ice I’d been standing on finally shattered.

I remember the anger that flowed through me that day. The blood boiling through my veins. The anger that awakened inside me. It overpowered me. It took control of who I was.

When I called upon the warden, the paddle he hit me with didn’t inflict a single drop of pain upon me. It’s as if my skin was made of stone, and the paddle was a piece of glass that broke upon it.

The warden’s face twisted into confusion, and he called for the other guards to circle me in an instant. I took this time to look for the first warden I ever met; the one with the general’s cap. But I never saw him, which only added more fuel to the roaring fire of rage inside me.

I don’t really remember what happened after that, as my mind was empty and my body acted on its own. All I remember is walking out of the Gulag unscathed, covered in blood, and a trail of dead guards behind me.

I ran and ran through endless halls and deadends in every direction. Any guard that got in my way was dead by the time I even took another breath.

Once I finally reached the second floor, my mind went back to its pitiful state of pity, just like before. The hatred in my eyes vanished, and blood in my heart burned with fear and nerves like never before.

I saw another hallway of cells. Cells that were filled with prisoners, prisoners I didn’t even want to look at, prisoners I never knew existed. I noticed an exit at the end of the hall and a window with paper-thin glass. It was my first chance to get out. My first ever sight of an escape from this horrid place.

However, the cries I heard inside the cells stopped me dead in my tracks. They were cries of those more desperate than me. Cries I couldn’t run away from. Cries that haunt my dreams every day.

I looked around, seeing a giant wooden lever mounted on the side of one of the walls. It looked too difficult to pull, and I already started running for the window, but something pulled me back like an unknown force. I don’t know whether it was fear or anger that directed my steps at that moment. Either way—seconds later—I found myself pulling hard against the lever with my blood-soaked hands gripping the smooth edges of the timber. It took all the strength I had remaining to pull it down, but the joy I felt when I saw a cell burst open didn’t last longer than a mere second.

A sharp pain entered my throat like a bolt of fiery lightning. I felt my blood leaking out of my neck like a broken fountain in a lively garden. Dizziness blurred my vision, and my body began to melt onto the cold floor.

Just as my mind fell unconscious, I saw a knife escape my throat, and for a split second, I witnessed the face of the man who the knife belonged to. The very first warden, towering over me with the general’s cap safely planted on his head, pulled the knife out, flicking the remnants of my own blood across my eyes.

He looked down on me the same way as when I cried atop his leather boot. Smiling and feeling nothing but pleasure. I saw the other guards rush past him, chasing after the escapees, and my eyes fell into the darkness.

…

A slight feeling of warmth and comfort atop my shoulder broke me from my story. I turned my head, seeing Rina resting herself on my cloak, her silky smooth hair gently falling down my shoulder. That blissful smell of lavender and amaiberries intertwined with the candle flame, twirling in the cozy tavern air.

She sniffled, “I-I was in…. those cells…” The tiny tips of her lashes seemed as if they danced with the flickering flame, as if adding lightning to thunder, or perhaps an extra sharp thorn to the most gorgeous rose.

“Perhaps my regret ended up saving at least one life,” I muttered, my chin dipping down to my chest. “But one life saved isn’t enough for how many lives I’ve taken.”

Rina’s eyes sprouted back open, revealing her watery, yet deep-hearted soul staring back at me, and her soft lips curled into the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.

“You didn’t save just mine….” She wrapped her arms around me, “That lever you pulled, it connected all the c-cells.”

Did it connect all of them? I thought for a moment, trying to make sense of the situation. “What do you mean it connected all of them?”

“There were over 400 remaining prisoners…” She continued, softly. “On the floors above, and even the ones below. Every one of them was able to escape because of you… All of us are alive because of what you did…”

I kept my gaze locked onto the candle, seeing it pass the halfway point before completely dying out. Maybe my regret meant more than what I thought... But how could over 400 prisoners escape through all the remaining guards? And through a single lever on the second floor?

I kept to my silence again, thinking steadily like a stone on a cliffside. I thought about stopping my story there, but Rina turned out to have more answers than I originally thought. These answers don’t mean anything now, nor will they change anything that has already happened. However, answers lead to the truth, and the truth is something I deserve to know.

The candlestick was beginning to reach its final moments alive. The flame diminished with every passing second, and the orange wax trickled down the melting stick. Winds scraped against the sealed windows, yet the only thing keeping its stay inside my ears were quiet sniffles and the chains linking all my memories together.

“Kalvin stopped all the guards from catching us,” Rina whispered aside. “He couldn’t help everyone… But most of us got out, and he continued holding them off…”

“So he was a warden?” I mumbled, already knowing the answer.

She nodded, “I wanted to go back for you-”

“It doesn’t matter now,” I interrupted her. “Going back for me would have made my attempt pointless. Just be thankful you escaped when you did, because after that day, it only got worse.” I closed my eyes, dove back into my head, and began reliving my memory; nine years ago.

…

I remember waking up a few days later with the most irritating pain in my throat. I spat on the steel bars that surrounded my cell and cleaned them with whatever clothes and sanity I had remaining.

It took a minute or so to find the right angle, but I managed to catch my own reflection in the steel bar. It wasn’t the prettiest sight, as I was covered in dry blood and slop, dirty clothes, and torn skin. However, I managed to get a glimpse of the tiny pieces of black string holding my neck together.

I could sense that even one small motion in the wrong direction would pull apart the stitches in a heartbeat, so I tried to keep that in mind for what was about to happen.

Apparently, since I didn’t know what happened to the prisoners on the upper floors at the time, I just assumed they were all captured and brought to a justice of some sort. Even I could hear the faint screams echoing through the hollow walls of the Gulag, and even I knew that escaping from this place for a second time would prove no good.

The warden in the general’s hat approached me in my cell, smiling as always. “Due to your act of bravery, we’ve run into some problems on the upper floors,” He chortled to himself as if it wasn’t a problem at all. “Your next opponents will be a little older, and I’m afraid you can’t refuse to fight.”

I remained silent, still angered by the sheer presence of his voice.

“Excellent.” He said as he walked off, throwing one last bowl of disgusting slop in my face.

The next fight I had inside the Gulag didn’t even last more than a minute. I remember being thirteen or so, and my opponent in his late thirties. It was a weak, skinny man who looked as if he hadn’t eaten in a full moon. Well... I didn’t look any better either.

In that one minute we were faced with one another, he told me about his wife and kids waiting for his arrival at home. He looked so pitiful, and I knew he wasn’t lying either. Apparently, their house back at home had a secret bunker where his wife and kids hid during the war. The man acted as nothing more than bait to protect his family. He refused to fight me, and anyone else.

The warden entered, brought the skinny man to his knees, and beat him to death with the wooden paddle. Not a single splash of blood across his face ruined his devilish grin. In fact, he looked happy doing it, as if this was his dessert after a bowl of slop. This warden was a killer by heart, not by request.

So, winning by default, my next fight was with another older gentleman. He looked to be about late twenties at most, well fed, and definitely not planning on holding back. By that point, any emotion I had left to feel any pity or remorse was already far gone. The only thing I had left was pain, regret, and my will to survive. My opponent seemed no different. We both wanted to survive, and there was only one way to accomplish said task.

The man came running towards me at full speed, face full of sweat, and dry slop remains dangling from his lips like a drunken gorilla. He took a swing at me, barely scraping against the side of my hair as I ducked and hurled myself away from him.

I didn’t know a single thing about fighting, but it’s like I was born to do it. My body moved on its own, and I bowed to its command. After the next swing, I threw my pathetically weak fist into a fattened portion of his stomach, which cushioned my bony knuckles nicely. Next thing I knew, the man dropped to the ground as if he’d just been struck by Thor’s hammer. He twitched a few times, then settled, fidgeting in the back of his brain.

At the time, I didn’t know what happened. But in my later years when I came to learn human anatomy, I realized my fist had landed directly in his solar plexus, traumatizing him unexpectedly. There was a little luck involved, a sprinkle of willpower, and a pinch of what you can call “My body’s sacrificial mechanisms to survive.”

Dying breaths escaped his thick neck, so I took that time to snap it, freeing him of his suffering. A crack rang through my hands, and the man succumbed to the darkness.

The warden came up to me, clapping and cheering as he’d just seen a beautiful performance. “Bravo! Bravo! Very well done!”

I remained silent, still, and tense. That was the first time I had ever taken a life. No, it was the first time I had felt something other than pain. I felt like a murderer. I was a murderer. I had taken a life away, and I felt nothing doing so.

Every fight I ever entered after that day was a fight for survival. I killed, and killed, and killed. Every time I killed, I would grab a sharpened rock I had hidden beneath my soup bowl, and I’d made a mark on my arm for every life I stole. It was the only way for me to show any gratitude and respect I had remaining for the lives that had fallen due to my actions.

Two years passed, and I racked up enough scars on my hands to last a lifetime. I broke bones, had mine broken. I tore skin, had mine torn. I shed blood, had mine shed. I faced death countless times, and every time we had our stare down, I’d cash in anything I had to stay. It was all a cycle, until finally, this cycle had enough of endless killing.

Out of nowhere, the entire second and third floors collapsed on top of us on the bottom floor. Luckily, I was unscathed, and my cell was broken free. Unfortunately, I couldn’t say the same for the others. Most were either crushed, or wounded to an extent where nothing would save them.

I however, didn’t care. There was nothing left inside me that would. So, I quickly rushed out of my cell, struggling to breathe inside the dust and rubble hovering in the air after the wreckage. I took off my shirt and wrapped it around my mouth and nose, looking for a possible exit around me.

After a few turns and twitches, I found a fallen rock that led to what seemed like a pathway about fifteen feet above where I stood. I didn’t think it was possible to make the jump at first, but it’s as if my body just moved on its own again.

I braced my core, loosened the pressure building up in my frail knees, and jumped as high as I possibly could.

At first, I knew I could only jump about two feet off the ground at my maximum potential. However, after I reached the five-foot mark, my body kept going. It kept going higher and higher until it passed the landing I was intentionally going for. I remember hitting my head against another rock sticking out from the broken ceiling, but I managed to land on the pathway on my way back down.

My head didn’t hurt, only making my vision blurry for a moment as I came to my surroundings again.

I probably spent about ten minutes examining my legs after that. Nothing seemed strange, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and nothing seemed any different. So I got up, and began running through the empty pathway before me.

The lights illuminating the hallways were almost completely blown out from all the explosions and rubble that was scattered around. Big blocks of cement and broken walls covered most of the hallways, along with countless dead guards and prisoners.

I kept running, and running, and running till I could no more. Eventually, I ended up on the very first floor that led to the ones below me. It was a large, faulty elevator-like room. There were no windows, no signs of an exit, and no signs of anyone around me.

As stupid as I was, I stepped onto the rusty looking mineshaft elevator and pulled the lever-built transportation system to go up. With the first pull, the elevator didn’t budge, but after a few painful noises and squeaks, it started its journey upward.

I took this time to unwrap my shirt, placing it back on my beaten body for some sort of protection I thought it gave. Instead, it just uncovered my healed scar and made me look like I was ready to kill anyone standing in my way, which in turn, was a good thing, because I was ready to kill anyone in my way.

I arrived in a weird, closet-like room on the first floor of the King’s castle. The room was dark, and hidden from anyone unwanted ever trying to find it. I opened a shallow wooden door, seeing a shelf filled with used garden equipment and other useless tools blocking my way.

I pushed the shelf over, making a disturbing noise against the tile floor below me. After searching around for a bit, I found a rigid machete, so I took it as a souvenir for the time being.

I went through another door, and soon enough, I was standing on the main floor inside the castle walls. Trying my best to stay hidden against the giant pillars beside me, I shuffled through endless rooms and corridors like I was a snake in the grass.

A few guards would block my way every now and then, so I made a cut on my arm for every guard I encountered, continuing my ascent through the castle walls.

By the time I finally found an exit, my hands were covered in cuts and gashes, and my body was covered in blood that wasn’t my own. I looked like a hyena that just finished it’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I was a complete mess.

I encountered some of the king’s slaves on my way up, but I left them be, thinking it wasn’t worth another senseless scar. I passed plenty of private kitchens, baths, and secret wardrobes only the highest-ranking officials had access to.

Whether it was a good thing or not, I found out what that slop was made of—Cockroaches, carrots, and boiled water. A perfect combination of protein, carbohydrates, and liquid to keep my body alive.

After cleaning myself and changing my dirt-covered shirt into a more suitable outfit, I politely asked the slaves where I could find the man in charge. They gave the right direction, and I promised their freedom in return.

They walked behind me up the royal stairs, acting as my personal slaves so no one dared to bat an eye. I kept the machete firmly planted on their necks just in case anyone questioned why a thirteen-year-old boy had four slaves following him.

When I arrived at the King’s Hall across a long and wide archway, the guards gave me two more scars on my arms, and I entered freely.

The number of guards and wardens surrounding the king exceeded my expectations, but my eyes stayed locked onto the bastard sitting on the throne. The air was dusty inside, clogging my already stuffed nostrils.

I decided this would be an exception for putting scars on myself, so I slowly began my approach, me steps trailing behind me with lowly thuds.

“There you are,” I said, my voice as flat as a greystone.

The King didn’t even bother to look at my presence as he welcomed me with a swaying gesture towards his servants, prompting the royal guards to take care of me. His head rested firmly on his palm, as if he didn’t care in the slightest. His lack of care irritated me, especially how the explosions—hundreds of feet below us—seemed as if they meant nothing to him.

Surprisingly, the guards he threw at me actually knew how to fight, but it was quite unfortunate they met me at my current state. As for I, for the first time, had a weapon in my hands. One that would sting like a wasp, and pierce like a needle.

Not one guard even landed a single hit on me, but the bastard on the throne didn’t look impressed by my skills. Despite him only having two wardens remaining, he looked as confident as ever, his eyes dark and pale all the same.

One of the wardens beside him was the one in the general’s hat, and the other held a brilliant looking katana holstered to his waist. It had a black leather grip, and the blade seemed sharp enough to cut through a fully grown pine tree.

I didn’t realize it back then, but if I fought them head on, I would have died; possibly without landing a hit.

Just as I stepped forward towards them, the walls around the King’s throne burst into a flame of explosions, and the wardens were unlucky enough to be blasted outside of the King’s chamber. I was certain they hadn’t died, but those explosions would leave a mark on them. One they would remember.

Through all my years, I never found out what those explosions were, but from the look of it, it looked as if they were on my side somehow. After being blasted against one of the walls, I ignored the lingering pain in my legs and made my way through the rubble to the throne. Dust and crumbs filled the air, and my legs limped me forward like two sticks on cobble.

King Richard II—who was still alive—cried and screamed to be helped as his body was lodged against a giant boulder above him. As he laid there, supine, sobbing in pain, he never even dared to look at me while pleading for god’s mercy. It’s as if I was nothing but a gust of wind, or an empty ghost. Either way, I wasn’t leaving without a memory.

“You want help?” I questioned him as the sounds of his cries poured through my ears, “Go and find Cairo, he’ll gladly help you.” I tightened the grip around my machete, cutting his hands right off like pieces of freshly baked pie.

He screamed, and yelled, and cried. Cried as if he’d just gotten his toys taken away. It was a coward’s cry, not the cry of a King.

I wrapped a piece of my royal clothing around my face and left through one of the holes made by the explosion. I let the slaves escape, but only for my promise, not for their freedom. Their lives weren’t in my hands any more.

If I were to go back, I would have killed the King. Let him bleed out as he cried my name. Especially after knowing what he’d become after I left, I wouldn’t hesitate as to even…

…

I sighed, “Perhaps that’s enough for now… I’ll leave the rest of the story for another day.”

I didn’t even realize how lost I’ve gotten in my own words that Rina was already fast asleep atop my shoulder. Dried sobs lingered down her crimson cheeks, and her face was as still as the moon.

I think that was the perfect way to describe it. The moon moves faster than anything I’ve ever seen, but it’s still. Still like it hasn’t moved in over a century.

That’s what I saw in Rina. She slept peacefully, quietly, motionless. Yet her heart beat loud, and her sorrow moved swiftly through the droplets on her cheeks.

The candlestick had finally come to it’s undermining end. All the light remaining inside the bar had vanished, and the ever-so-changing moonlight twinkled through the windows.

I gently placed Rina in my arms and carried her upstairs. I didn’t know where her room was, nor did I care to look for it, so I placed her in my bed, trying my best not to wake Mooks from his peaceful slumber.

After dragging myself down the stairs, I sat down in my usual spot by the end of the table. “Thank you, Rina,” I whispered, and fell asleep on the countertop.