Where am I

Michael shuddered with a wave of disorientation as he opened his eyes. His mind was shrouded in thick fog, as if he had just awakened from a centuries-long sleep, his body foreign to him. The air was heavy and damp; each breath filled his lungs with the stifling scent of mold, sweat, and scorched earth. Around him stretched an endless sea of soil—dry, cracked, gray, as if life had long abandoned this place. The sky was draped in a blood-red veil; cloudless, yet pulsing with an eerie glow, as if the heavens were the inner lining of a wound. In the distance, silhouettes—figures digging, bending, working—moved like shadows, silent, mechanical. The scene stirred a strange sense of familiarity, but Michael couldn't name it. His mind blurred for a moment; his head throbbed with a piercing pain. Where am I?

In that instant, the grotesque memories of the ritual flooded his mind like a torrent—the girl's body split in two, the splatter of blood, Marie's porcelain vagina, the sour, revolting taste of the soup. His stomach clenched like a fist. He gagged; the metallic taste of bile and blood rose in his mouth. He collapsed to his knees, his hands clawing at the dry earth. He began to vomit—violently, uncontrollably. The contents of his stomach splattered onto the rocky ground; a vile, yellowish liquid mixed with chunks of raw flesh and white, thread-like remnants. The stench burned his nostrils—acid, rotting flesh, and the cursed residue of the ritual. Each heave stabbed his chest like a knife; his stomach writhed in agony, as if his organs were trying to escape. His face was pale and sunken; his cheeks were wet with sweat and tears. His breaths were raspy, halting; his throat burned as if scorched.

As he struggled to breathe, a shadow fell over him. A rough, hulking man in a leather vest and a tattered hat loomed above. In his hand was a black, greasy whip, its tip studded with barbed iron. "NO BREAKS! KEEP GOING!" he roared, his voice like thunder. The whip sliced through the air, whistling as it struck Michael's back. His skin tore open; a burning pain consumed his back like fire. The agony was so sharp that Michael forgot to breathe for a moment. Blood, hot and sticky, trickled beneath his robe; the wound pulsed like a heartbeat. The whip's barbs had embedded in his flesh; each movement amplified the pain. His eyes filled with tears; he clenched his teeth, but a groan escaped his lips. The man stood over him like an executioner, his eyes cold and impatient, like a hunter's.

Michael, with trembling hands, grasped the hoe lying on the ground. Its handle was worn and rough, scraping his palms, slick with sweat. The hoe was rusty and heavy; its iron blade seemed to beg to be buried in the earth. He stood, his knees shaking. The man's shadow weighed on his back like a burden. Keep going. He raised the hoe and struck the earth with all his strength. The metal hit the dry ground; a sharp clang pierced the air. The soil reluctantly parted; a gray, dusty wound widened with the hoe's blow. Each strike ached in his shoulders; his arms trembled with exhaustion. Sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes, blurring his vision with a salty sting. The smell of the earth—dry, moldy, but with a strange, metallic undertone—filled his nose. The digging became a monotonous but brutal rhythm. Clang! The soil opened. Clang! Dust scattered into the air. Clang! His arms began to numb.

His mind was a swamp. The ritual's brutality—the girl's blood, the soup's vile taste—danced before his eyes. His family's execution, the ashes… Is this what it means to be holy? A moral dilemma gnawed at him. The past was poison—he hadn't saved the girl, hadn't saved his family. But now, he had to survive. Dwelling on the past will ruin the future. This thought echoed in his mind like a mantra. He struck the hoe harder; each blow buried his anger, guilt, and helplessness into the earth. The soil was stubborn; in some places, stones clinked against the hoe's blade, jarring his wrists. He poured seeds from the pouch at his waist—black, glossy, like tiny insect shells. His fingers, caked with dust and sweat, fumbled; the seeds slipped from his hand, scattering into the soil. Each movement was mechanical, but his mind was a storm.

For two hours, the man's shadow loomed over him. The whip's threat merged with the throbbing pain of the wound on his back. Michael didn't stop. His arms had grown heavy as lead; his lower back ached with each bend. His breaths, clogged with dust, were raspy. Finally, the man grunted and walked toward the other figures. Michael paused for a moment. He drove the hoe into the ground, his hands trembling. He looked around. His eyes widened in shock. An endless sea of soil—red terra-rosa earth. In the distance, digging silhouettes moved like ghosts; some clinked with the sound of chains. The sky pulsed like a red wound, beating like a heart. The scene stirred an eerie familiarity—as if this were a forgotten hell. Where am I?

Michael gripped the hoe's handle. The rusty iron scraped his palms, slick with sweat; his hands were covered in calluses and crusted blood. His blond hair was matted with dust and sweat; his robe, torn, was stained with blood and dirt. His arms, heavy as lead, trembled with each movement; his shoulders sagged under the weight of hours of effort. The whip marks on his back pulsed like a heartbeat—red, torn skin burned with each breath, oozing blood and sweat. His teeth, clenched, had drawn blood; his mouth was filled with a foul, metallic taste of infection. Each chew triggered a throbbing pain; his gums, swollen, ached with a revolting sting. His eyes, dimmed by exhaustion and hunger, darkened; the world blurred for a moment, then sharpened again. I can't take it. But he couldn't stop. The whip-wielding man loomed over him like an executioner.

Michael was lost in thought. His mind was a swamp—the ritual's grotesque memories, the girl's bisected body, the soup's sour taste, his family's ashes. I'm the guilty one. But these thoughts were shattered by the whip-wielding man's harsh glare. The man, a hulking shadow in a leather vest, his eyes gleaming under the shadow of his hat—cold, impatient, like a hunter's. The whip coiled in his hand like a snake, its barbed tip glinting in the candlelight. Michael raised his hoe and struck the earth with all his strength. Clang! The rusty iron sank into the dry ground; dust scattered, stinging his eyes. The soil was stubborn; in some places, stones clinked against the hoe's blade, jarring his wrists. Each strike cut into his shoulders like a knife; his arms, numb, felt detached from his body. Sweat dripped from his forehead to his chin, stinging his lips with a salty burn. The smell—the moldy weight of the earth, the sharp bite of sweat, the metallic trace of blood—filled his nose.

Hours passed. Perhaps days, perhaps weeks. Time held no meaning in this gray desert. Michael's digging pace visibly slowed. The hoe grew heavier in his hands; each lift was like moving a mountain. His breaths, raspy and clogged with dust, tightened his chest. His body, once scorched by the heat's searing rage, now shivered from malnutrition. His bones trembled with cold, his skin prickled. His eyes darkened again; the world tilted for a moment, as if he would collapse. Give up. But the whip-wielding man's shadow drew near. "KEEP GOING!" he roared, his voice like thunder. The whip sliced through the air, whistling as it struck Michael's back. His skin tore; a burning pain spread like fire, as if molten iron had been poured onto his back. Blood, hot and sticky, trickled beneath his robe; the barbed tips, embedded in his flesh, tore deeper with each movement. The pain was so sharp that Michael's breath caught; he clenched his teeth, but a groan escaped his lips. His back had become a map of blood and whip marks—red, swollen wounds pulsing like a heartbeat.

An internal war turned Michael's soul into an arena. Endure. His mind teetered on the edge of an abyss. The chaotic traces of his PTSD fragmented his thoughts—the ritual's grotesqueness, the girl's white eyes, his family's Domine, me ignosce cries. I'm the guilty one. But guilt clashed with survival instinct. If I stop, I die. The whip's threat loomed over his back like the Grim Reaper; each pause meant a new wound. Keep going. He raised the hoe and struck the earth. Clang! Each blow tried to bury his anger, guilt, and helplessness into the soil. But his mind was torn by a moral dilemma. Is this survival? They had killed a girl in the ritual. Shadows had devoured his family. Now, in this gray desert, he dug like a slave, planting seeds—for what? Let the past stay in the past. This mantra was a shield, but each whip strike cracked it. To save the future? What future? His mind found no answer; a headache stabbed like a knife, making thought impossible.

Michael clenched his teeth. His gums, swollen with infection, bled with each pressure; his mouth was filled with a foul taste—blood, pus, dust. The throbbing was so intense it locked his jaw; each chew stabbed like a needle. But he didn't stop. He raised the hoe and struck. Clang! The soil opened. He poured seeds from the pouch at his waist—black, glossy, like tiny bones. His fingers, caked with dust and blood, fumbled; the seeds slipped, scattering into the earth. He looked around. The nearest figure was a kilometer away—a digging, bending shadow moving with the clink of chains. Its face was sunken, eyes empty, worse than dead. Loneliness swallowed Michael like a wave. Is this hell?

Days or weeks passed, unknown. Michael didn't stop. His arms felt like they would snap; his back burned with each movement. His eyes kept darkening; the world vanished for a moment, then returned. Endure. The internal war kept him upright. Guilt poisoned him, but survival instinct was stronger. If I give up, it's over. He raised the hoe and struck one last time. Clang! The soil opened.