7. New World

Aaron woke up disoriented, his mind foggy and his senses dulled as if he were emerging from a deep, dreamless sleep. His head pounded with a dull, persistent ache, and his body felt heavy, as though it had been weighed down by invisible chains. He blinked several times, his vision swimming, trying to make sense of the darkness that surrounded him. 

The last thing he remembered was walking home from school, the strange sensation that had been gnawing at him all day finally reaching its peak. It had felt like the world was tilting, shifting beneath his feet, and then everything had gone completely black. Now, he found himself lying on the cold, uneven ground. The air was thick, and heavy with the stench of rotten food, something metallic like rust or blood, and a rancid, unplaceable odor that made his stomach churn.

He groaned softly, as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. His fingers brushed against jagged stones slick with moss, the cold seeping into his skin. The walls on either side of him were narrow, leaning inward as if they might collapse at any moment. They were made of crude-looking stone, darkened by age and grime, their surfaces streaked with patches of moss and filth. A rat scurried past, its beady eyes glinting in the dim light before it disappeared into the shadows, but Aaron was too preoccupied to notice it.

Aaron sat up slowly, his body aching from the hard ground beneath him. Every movement sent sharp jolts of pain through his limbs, and his ribs throbbed with each breath. He looked around, taking in the details of his surroundings. The alley was narrow and stretched out in both directions. It had tall buildings on either side blocking out most of the sunlight making it barely visible through the narrow gap between them. 

The ground was littered with debris—broken crates, discarded food, and other garbage. Everything looked out of place and foreign, unlike everything that he had been used to. The buildings were made of stone and wood, their surfaces weathered and worn, with thatched roofs and narrow windows. 

He slowly brushed the dirt off his clothes and took a few cautious steps forward. The alley was quiet, eerily so, with no signs of life or movement. Aaron felt a pang of unease, a sense of being utterly alone in this strange, unfamiliar place. At the end of the alley, a hunched figure wrapped in a tattered cloak paused, as if sensing his gaze, then disappeared around the corner.

"Wait!" he called out, his voice odd and unfamiliar in the silence. But the figure was gone, ignoring him leaving his question hanging around in the air.

Aaron took a deep breath, trying to steady himself and clear his mind. He needed to figure out where he was and how he had gotten here. The sense of being lost and alone was overwhelming, a heavy weight on his shoulders.

He sighed and looked at his hands. He caught a glimpse of them. They were tiny. Small, dirty, and calloused, the hands of a child. He flexed his fingers, stunned by how they looked, how unfamiliar. His nails were cracked and caked with grime, his knuckles scraped and bruised. He turned his hands over, staring at the palms, rough and lined with dirt. 

His whole body felt wrong. His clothes hung loosely on his frame, worn out and patched, but clearly too big for him now. The tunic he wore was frayed at the edges, the fabric rough against his skin, and the trousers were rolled up at the ankles, barely staying on his narrow hips. He touched his face, his cheeks were hollow and his skin smudged with dirt and soot.

As he stood there, in shock, memories began to surface, unfocused and hazy at first. They came in flashes. Crouching in the shadows of a bustling marketplace, his small hands outstretched for scraps of food. Darting through crowded streets, a stolen loaf of bread clutched tightly to his chest, the sound of angry shouts echoing behind him. 

Sleeping in doorways, curled up against the cold, his breath visible in the frosty air. The memories settled into place, one after another, and with them came a sinking realization: he was a street rat. Always had been. His whole life had been spent surviving on the edges of society, begging, stealing, scraping by. There was no home to return to, no family waiting for him. The streets were his world, and survival was his only goal.

The air around him was warm, almost stifling, carrying the faint scent of smoke and something sweet, like roasting meat from a distant stall, making his small stomach growl in protest. His limbs felt heavy, every movement sending sharp jolts of pain through him. His ribs throbbed with each breath, and his legs trembled as he shifted his weight. He looked down at his hands, and his breath caught.

His body ached everywhere. Bruises dotted his arms and legs, dark splotches of purple and yellow that stood out against his sickly pale skin. His back felt stiff as if he'd been sleeping on hard ground for weeks. He winced as he shifted his weight, the pain sharp and insistent. His knees were scabbed, his elbows raw, and his feet were bare, the soles calloused but tender from walking on rough stones.

Aaron stood there, trembling, as the truth settled over him. He didn't know what to do.

'It all started with that memory, could it be that I can live multiple lives? But how? Please don't tell me I died in my world. Please no! I wanna go home, to my family! Please!' Aaron begged in his mind nearly having a mental breakdown.

All he knew was that he was hurt, alone, and far from anything and anyone he held dear. The alley stretched out before him, narrow and cluttered, the walls closing in as if to remind him of how trapped he was. The sky above was still that pale, sickly gray, offering no comfort. 

He tried to calm himself out but couldn't. Even the thought of it hurt him. He was a street rat, a nobody, with nothing but the clothes on his back and far away from everybody and everything he held dear.

He clenched his tiny hands into fists, the motion sending a fresh wave of pain through his bruised knuckles. The warmth of the air did little to ease the chill that had settled in his chest. The memories of his past were dark, filled with hunger, cold, and pain. He had never known warmth, never had a good day. Every moment of his life had been a struggle, a fight to survive in a world that had no place for him.

As he stood there, the weight of his reality pressing down on him, one question burned in his mind: How did he get here? And more importantly, how could he survive in this place? He doesn't know how but he will have to find a way to survive, he must go on.

From the memories that appeared Aaron found out that here, he had never felt the warmth of a loving touch, and the only touches that he had felt were the punches and kicks of adults. The closest thing he had to a home was the alley where he slept.

He had learned to survive by stealing, by begging, by doing whatever it took to barely stay alive. But even then, it was never enough. There was always more hunger, more pain, more fear. The world was a cruel and unforgiving place, and he had a moment of respite.

As he stood there, the memories swirling around him like a dark cloud, he felt a surge of anger and frustration. Why had he been given this body, this life? He wanted to scream, to lash out at the world, but he knew it would do no good. 

The world didn't care about him, if it had, he wouldn't have been here. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions raging inside him. He needed to focus, to think clearly. He couldn't afford to lose control, not now. He had to find a way to get back to his old world, to his family. But how?

The thought of his family sent a sharp pang of longing through him. He wanted to go home, to the warmth and safety of the life he had known.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions raging inside him. He needed to focus, to think clearly. He couldn't afford to lose control, not now. He had to find a way to get back to his old world. 

He would have to be careful, to stay hidden, to avoid drawing attention to himself. As he stood there, the weight of his reality pressing down on him, he felt a strange sense of determination.