To Live and Die A Thousand Times

𝕴 woke up in the mud. Not the soft kind, not playful puddles. This was a cold, sour muck that clung to me, heavy with rot. It sucked at my skin like it wanted me to stay buried. The taste of it sat on my tongue, gritty, bitter. My mouth was dry, yet full of filth. Above me, the sky sagged gray, clouds swollen like bruises. The air smelled of smoke and waste. Somewhere nearby, something had burned. Not wood—bones maybe. Hides. Trash. Whatever scraps the poor fed to fire when they had nothing else. I sat up, and the mud pulled free with a sick noise. My arms were sticks, red with cold. My ribs jutted like broken rafters. My breath misted white in the air. I didn’t know my name. Or maybe I had one. But it had slipped into the same pit where everything else was gone. All I had now was hunger. Hunger sharper than thought. Hunger like teeth gnawing from the inside. The first thing I remember is hunger. Not fear. Not love. Not even pain. Just the ache that bent me double and made me claw at my stomach like I could tear the emptiness out. I staggered to my feet. My legs shook. Mud clung to my knees. The ground around me was rutted, beaten flat by wheels and hooves. Chickens pecked at the earth nearby, scrawny things with missing feathers. A dog limped past, its ribs laddering under its hide, tail tucked. People moved along the lane, bent under baskets, hoods pulled low against the chill. They didn’t look at me. Their eyes slid past, like I was just another bit of trash left in the mud. That told me enough. I was small, dirty, and unwanted. Not worth saving. I walked. 𝕿he lane spilled into the market square. Stalls leaned crooked into each other, patched with rough planks and stretched cloth. Smoke rose from braziers where fish sizzled and meat hissed fat onto fire. The smell hit me like a fist—smoke, grease, salt, onions. My belly cramped hard enough to make me stumble. Merchants shouted over one another, voices hoarse, heavy with dialect I didn’t know but understood all the same: buy, trade, pay, hurry, hurry, hurry. Women argued over roots and herbs, sleeves rolled back, hands raw and cracked. A boy chased a goose that darted between boots, wings flapping, people swearing. The world was alive. Busy. Loud. And none of it cared about me. My eyes fixed on a loaf of bread. Round, blackened at the edges, sitting on the stall beside a fat man with greasy hair. He leaned on his elbows, red face sweating in the cold, barking at a woman over salt. The hunger made my body move. I didn’t think so. Thinking wasted time. My hand darted out, grabbed the loaf, tucked it tight against my chest. Then a fist cracked across my jaw. I hit the ground hard. The loaf rolled from my arms, splashing into the muck. The fat man loomed over me, shouting, spit flying. His boot came down on the bread, grinding it into paste. My stomach clenched so hard I thought I’d vomit. “Thief!” someone roared. Hands seized my collar. I was yanked upright, my feet dragging in the mud. My eyes found a knife before they found a face. A boy held it. Knife-boy. Maybe fifteen. Older than me, maybe not. His grin was broken teeth and gums. He pressed the blade against my cheek and leaned close. The market didn’t stop. Behind him, a woman cursed over onions. A dog barked at a butcher’s scraps. Somewhere, a baby wailed. The knife-boy’s grin widened. Maybe he wanted to scare me. Maybe he wanted to mark me. Maybe he wanted to cut me. 𝕭ut I didn’t think so. I bit. My teeth sank into his wrist. His scream tore through the market, high and sharp, startling the goose into flight. The knife clattered to the ground. He punched my head once. Twice. My ears rang. I didn’t let go. My jaw locked, hot blood flooding my mouth, metallic and foul. When I released him, I clawed, scratching his face, his eyes. He stumbled back, shrieking, clutching his wrist. I snatched the loaf—ruined, filthy, but still bread—and ran. Voices thundered behind me. “Catch him!” “Stop the rat!” Feet pounded mud. I slipped between stalls, shoved through legs, dove under a cart. A merchant cursed, a whip cracked, but I didn’t stop. My lungs burned. Stones cut my bare feet. I didn’t dare look back. I burst out of the square, down an alley choked with piss and beer stink, past leaning huts where smoke drifted from thatched roofs. Dogs snarled. A drunk spat as I passed. And then I was out—out beyond the walls, stumbling into the fields, legs buckling. I collapsed into a ditch overgrown with weeds, heart hammering. The bread was ruined. Crushed flat, soaked through. Mud ground into it like ash. I ate anyway. I tore it apart with my teeth, gagging on grit, chewing hard, swallowing harder. I ate until nothing was left but crumbs under my nails. My stomach hurt with fullness, but it was a good pain. A living pain. I lay back in the ditch, chest heaving, eyes on the sky. Clouds still sagged low. The taste of blood clung to my tongue. Alive. That was all that mattered. 𝕹ight fell cold. Frost crept over the weeds. The wind slithered down the ditch like a knife. My teeth chattered. My lip split where the knife-boy’s fist had landed. My cheek throbbed. Every sound made me flinch. Wolves howling in the distance. Hooves clopping on the road. Laughter of drunks staggering home. A woman shouting. A dog barking, close. Too close. The world kept moving. Nobody cared if I froze here, or starved, or if wolves dragged me into the trees. I thought of the knife-boy’s grin. His scream. The taste of his blood. That was the lesson. If I wanted to live, I had to fight. Not fair. Not clean. Dirty. Bite, claw, scratch. Whatever it took. I curled tighter, hugging my knees. The ditch smelled of wet earth and dung smoke from the village. My throat burned with thirst. Life was nothing but hunger, cold, and pain. But I had survived the day. For now. Morning came with gray light and frost that glazed the ground. My body ached from the cold. My fingers were stiff and purple. My feet burned with cuts. Smoke rose from the huts again. The market would open. Merchants would shout. Women would argue. Chickens would scatter. Dogs would fight over scraps. Life would go on, whether I was there or not. I staggered up from the ditch, arms wrapped around myself, shivering hard. My belly still cramped from the bread, but hunger already gnawed again. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔡 𝔫𝔬 𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢. 𝔑𝔬 𝔣𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔩𝔶. 𝔑𝔬 𝔪𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔶. 𝔅𝔲𝔱 ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔡 𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔥. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔡 𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔴𝔰. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔡 𝔥𝔲𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯. 𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔢𝔫𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥. 𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔫𝔬𝔴.