Broken City
1363 Words
“Caretaker? You mean the gravekeeper?”
The man in front of Ben flinched as though struck. His faded black shirt hung loosely from his thin frame, the fabric worn and colorless from years of use. He bowed again and again, clutching a broomstick that trembled in his hands. His voice quivered, uncertain.
“Y-yes, sir! Is there a problem? Why do you look so upset with me?”
Ben rubbed his face, shame washing over him. His emotions had been unstable all day, and suspicion had poisoned his thoughts. How could he accuse someone so harmless? Up close, it was obvious this man posed no threat. The gravekeeper couldn’t even meet his eyes. Guilt pressed down on Ben’s chest like a stone.
“No. There’s nothing wrong. I misunderstood.” His tone softened, almost apologetic. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out several purple banknotes. “Thank you for your hard work. I’m sorry for disturbing your rest. Please, take this and buy yourself a good meal.”
The gravekeeper hesitated, lips parting as if to refuse, but Ben was already walking away. He left the cemetery quickly, climbing onto the back of a passing truck headed toward the outskirts of the city.
The truck rattled along uneven roads, its metal frame groaning with every bump. Dust swirled in the air, coating Ben’s clothes and skin. When it finally stopped, he jumped down, his boots crunching against gravel.
He walked with deliberate steadiness—neither fast nor slow, but purposeful. His shoulders squared, chin slightly raised, projecting strength even though his face was weary and drawn. He couldn’t afford to look weak. No one passing by could be allowed to see the grief that gnawed at his heart.
The ground crackled beneath his steps, small stones grinding against the thin soles of his shoes. He clicked his tongue in irritation and kicked an empty can, sending it clattering against a nearby lamppost.
“Hey, take it easy!” a ragged man shouted from beside a garbage cart. His bare chest swayed loosely, his body rocking as if pushed by invisible waves. His eyes were bloodshot, narrowing at Ben. “Huh? Denver, is that you?”
Ben rolled his eyes, frustration bubbling. He wanted to lash out, to unload his anger on this filthy drunk who dared to call out to him. But he knew better. Talking to someone half-conscious was pointless. He drew a deep breath, turned his face away, and kept walking. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt, the air suddenly too heavy, too suffocating.
“Denver! Come back!” the man shouted again. “Stop wandering and return to your family!”
“My family is dead!” Ben barked without turning. The words were careless, but true. He had no living blood relatives left in this world.
The ragged man yelled something in protest, but Ben ignored him, his stride unbroken.
Ahead, two men stood locked in a heated argument. Their hands gripped crude weapons—a broken glass bottle and a rusted iron rod. One wrong move and either of them could end up bleeding, poisoned by tetanus.
Ben stopped, considering. He didn’t want to get involved, but leaving them like this felt wrong. With a heavy sigh, he approached.
“If shouting won’t solve your problem, then fight like men! Don’t hide behind scraps of metal and glass. Use your fists!” His voice boomed, deep and commanding. The words froze both men in place.
“Ben! You’re back?” one of them exclaimed, a scar running horizontally beneath his right eye. He tossed the bottle aside and stepped toward Ben, ignoring his opponent’s stance. “I thought you were visiting your daughter.”
Ben didn’t answer. His eyes shifted to the other man, who was trembling, muttering incoherently. His lips, nails, even his knees were tinged with blue. His breath came in ragged gasps. Something was terribly wrong.
Suddenly, the man collapsed, clutching his chest.
Ben rushed forward, kneeling beside him. He pressed his fingers to the man’s neck, frowning at the frantic heartbeat. A pungent odor filled the air, stinging his nose. He slapped the man’s cheeks, pressed his thumb against his foot, tried everything to wake him. Nothing worked.
He turned to the scarred man, who raised his hands defensively. “I had nothing to do with this! We were arguing because I knew something was wrong with him.”
Ben exhaled sharply. He didn’t want this. His day had already been unbearable. But he couldn’t just walk away.
He sprinted down narrowing alleys until the roar of traffic grew louder. The stench of garbage faded, replaced by exhaust fumes and asphalt. Within minutes, he reached the main road.
Turning right, he scanned the area until he spotted the building he needed. He shoved the glass door open so hard it slammed against the wall.
“Someone needs help! Just one officer, come with me!” His voice thundered across the room. Dozens of eyes turned toward him, curious, wary.
No one moved.
Ben’s chest heaved. He shouted again, louder. “A man collapsed near the coastal settlement behind this building! He’s unconscious! Are you really going to do nothing?”
Some officers groaned in annoyance. One finally approached, wearing a smile that was anything but sincere.
“Calm down. Let’s talk about what’s happening.”
“I already told you! Stop wasting time before someone dies!”
The officer sighed, his patience thinning. “From what you’ve said, it doesn’t sound urgent. People collapse from drugs all the time in Broken City. It’s not unusual. Are you even from here?”
Ben’s eyes widened. His jaw tightened, face flushing with rage. “I’ve lived in this rotten city for years! It may not be anyone’s dream home, but I thought people here were still treated like humans!” His fists trembled, itching to grab the officer’s collar.
The officer folded his arms, smirking. “I should’ve ignored you from the start.”
Ben frowned. “What?”
“What did you take before coming here? No, wait—since you’re still standing, maybe you took it yesterday. Tell me, what was it?”
Ben’s fury erupted. “Don’t you dare! I came here for help, not interrogation! The one who needs saving isn’t me!”
“Then go home before I arrest you for causing trouble.” The officer gestured toward the door. “You’re wasting my time. I have real work to do.”
Ben’s fists clenched, his body coiled to strike. But a loud cough stopped him. He turned to see several officers aiming their guns at him, fingers ready on the triggers. Civilians covered their ears, bracing for gunfire.
Ben’s blood boiled.
When he first moved here, lured by cheap land and housing, Ben hadn’t expected paradise. All he wanted was a roof, walls, a safe place for his family. The nearby coast promised work, a way to provide. He thought his strength and courage would be enough to protect his wife and daughter.
But Broken City was worse than the rumors. Corruption, neglect, violence—it seeped into every corner. And now, alone, Ben saw it more clearly than ever.
Defeated, he raised his hands, turned, and walked out. Once again, he had failed to save someone.
Was this the same failure that had stolen Alisya’s life? The thought gnawed at him, relentless.
He passed the scarred man again, who stood beside the lifeless body now covered with a burlap sack.
“Don’t worry! I’ll bury him properly!” the man called.
Ben didn’t answer. He lifted a hand in vague acknowledgment, head bowed, and kept walking.
He slipped into a narrow alley barely wider than his shoulders. Within seconds, he emerged onto another street and entered the yard of a small house with a bright red door.
The “yard” was little more than six square meters, fenced with scrap wood. Ben pushed the gate open and reached for his key.
But when he pressed it to the lock, the door swung inward.
His breath caught.
“What? Why isn’t the door locked?”
- Writer
