Yarid was in charge of the care of the merchandise during the two days of travel that remained to reach their destination, the young man did not respond to any of their talks, they assumed that he was disabled by the shipwreck, or that he has always been deaf and mute, although if he is guided he walks, he does nothing after that, he looks like an empty shell of what once was a person, so some members of the caravan decided to avoid him, it was a bit creepy, he did not eat anything solid, Yarid was in charge of keeping him hydrated while they moved through the dunes during the day, At night and in the morning he made him drink wine, or soup, the young man's gray eyes caught his attention, but they always seemed empty, after the first night he did not moan again while sleeping, in fact he was not sure that the young man slept, he just lay there looking at nothing, when he woke up to take him to have breakfast and get ready to resume the trip, he found him in exactly the same position with his eyes open and his gaze lost as he remembered before sleeping.
Although it was common for a group of few numbers like them to be assaulted by bandits, especially in the vicinity of the oasis, apparently the Gods illuminated their destiny and allowed the caravan to advance to its destination without any inconvenience.
The caravan arrived at the Taryng Oasis as planned, before entering a group of guards approached to inspect the group, but the guard in charge was an old acquaintance of Simon, therefore, the review was done superficially, while the guard received some coins from his old acquaintance. After delivering his goods to his contacts Ras took the young man to a brothel from which he returned alone, Yarid could only send his good wishes. And so one more caravan entered the Oasis and went about its business.
After the delivery the caravan split up, on the one hand, Simon took a couple of guards and soon left for the ports with the idea of reaching the eastern lands, Ras on the other hand gave a few days off to his men while he himself immersed himself in the pleasures of the oasis.
The brothels of the oasis had a certain prestige, or distinctive fame in the region, it was known to all that Dofias as a city state took full advantage of trade in its ports, and despite the location of the oasis, it did have its own port, although it was separate, but not without surveillance, a port that allowed only certain goods, which were then auctioned, sold or delivered as prizes in the activities of the oasis.
The flower of the desert, a brothel of some renown was one of those that often received merchandise from different places including ports, famous for fulfilling the fantasies of its customers, whatever it was, as long as the price was right, attracting the attention and patronage not only of lustful nobles or unfaithful husbands, murderers, psychopaths, pederasts and many more filled the list of distinguished customers. Now why a brothel constantly needed new merchandise to offer to the public, is because what it offered was not a simple escort service, the client could buy, for a high price of course, a consumable, and enjoy it in its fully equipped facilities. Do you need to know how long a man can live once you remove his limbs or his sexual organs? The desert flower is your place, want to see wild animals devouring someone? The desert flower is your place, do you want to boil a consumable alive? The desert flower is your place, prestige is earned step by step, and there was no brothel on the continent that could match the services of the desert flower. The competition in the oasis was only limited to exploit the exotic beauties that provided certain specialties between sheets, they never wanted to snatch part of the select market to which the desert flower aimed.
Yarid had a few days off until his owner, Ras, finished his days of excesses, for slaves guards like him are days of rest and good food, very useful to endure the days of walking in the desert, many more die from weakness than in confrontations.
Strolling around the oasis enjoying the views, the gastronomic specialties, usually fish, because of the proximity of the port, some sweet preserves and sometimes fruits if you are lucky to go to the market in the morning, for people like him with the tight budget, for which he should be grateful, few masters give money to their slaves for leisure, going to the betting houses and races was as good a plan as any other, but in his condition as a slave and noting that he was not part of those bidding it was just a passing trip until the organizers sent someone to ask him to leave very gently.
I can't think how much time has passed since I fell down that hole, the truth is I can't think of anything, I don't even remember very well how to spin my ideas to form something, I can perceive the sound, distant voices as if I were a bird cloistered in its egg, unable to hatch to see the outside world, unable to break the shell, because there isn't one, and neither is there strength in my body for such a accomplishment.
My body, I only feel pain in my back, the rumbling of the outside and my center, a distorted melody, driven by disorder and reluctance, I hear and feel my heart, although I doubt that it is possible to keep that organ functional if I get total clarity of my current situation.
I have no control and my body trembles from the belly, from a raw winter that bathes my existence without even being in season, my body transformed into something so far away from myself, I am aware that I must have one, and it responds in strange ways to a lot of stimuli that do not wait their turn to attack again and again.
The pain that should make me scream to receive the response of some being, is there but my cry for help has no place, they say that humans believe in God, I have believed all my life in him why I am aware of his existence, and I understand perfectly well that I have no place in his sight and thoughts, but I don't know to whom to send my lament, my prayers, the cry for help, the distress alert.
Someone explain to me how I can return.
I can only have that idea before it disarms like the others, I want to go back, and choose another way.
Breathing falters at times giving way to the climax of despair, then, it calms, and a sea of anxiety and fear continues, swirling in my chest and trying to escape through my mouth, only to reach the shore and fade away, everything gives up without form, returning to the nothingness I seem to be a part of and the next second I am rejected.
I'm not sure of anything, I can't, but there is a single fact that triggers everything.
A wild projectile that starts from deep inside, hidden, shy and rejected by the ephemeral consciousness that visits me when it can or wants to.
A fear
An emptiness
An anonymous demand of me for me
A fact faded by the whispers of my dying hope.
Ignorance would be welcome, or anyone who can keep that tiny drop of reality out of the sea in which I sink and yet of which I am the source.
I can't remember his voice.
I can't believe I remember her smiling face, the dull days where all it took was each other's company to satiate happiness.
The person I have loved, now remains mute in my confused memory, and I cannot stop the exercise, or torture, of wanting with all my might, to find any piece of my memory that contains a line of her words.
A power above all others forbids me, the images are more and more confusing and again the monster that accompanies panic embraces me, if now I cannot remember her voice, I could not bear to let it take away the pictures that painted my eyes.
Why is this turbulence that snatches everything from my control not enough? Take all from me, but that treasure that has not yet been taken from me, let it remain, though it may not be part of me, though it may undo me in this prison without bars or jailer, at least let the drawings of what was once shared by our souls leave their shadow upon the cold stone at the bottom of my cage.
The smallest breeze with its tone of voice would now be enough to lash like an earthquake the thread that binds my life to the unknown. Why I do not know where or when I am, but I know that I live, or exist and that is the worst, for I am aware of what I am deprived of.
I have been robbed, and I can do nothing but beg to the void for mercy, to remove my existence from any time and any place, for I cannot bear to know that part of me has been taken from me, a part of me that did not belong to me, a gift that was grown with the help of another.
I would give up everything I have to be able to return and just once hear my name born from her lips with all the affection, and have it cradle my soul in the calm as it did before everything fell into chaos.
But I am even more aware at every moment, that I am not my own master, and that there are no forces that come to obey my wishes.
I wished for so many things when we were each other's arm, but in this moment of involuntary withdrawal, I only wish I could give my words to anyone, even if it only serves to let out some of the pressure that floods me, and the desire never falls on fertile ground.
Not being able to remember, is to fall into a lake so slowly that it seems that time wants to play with my patience, sinking and drowning me, and despite not offering resistance, and allow my will to fade, betting that by negligence of another my existence is extinguished, the weight of the cold and burning waters of my mutinous feelings, makes its way through my mouth nose and lungs, a vortex, taking everything as tyrannical conquest, ravaging themselves, but without eliminating me, by consideration or pure evil.
And there I am, a silent monument scratching the shell, but its hands have been exchanged by fate for columns of smoke, which exist, but are unable to obey the instinct to escape, and at the same time suffocate the owner, not allowing him to achieve eternal rest.
Just...
Beast open your maw and devour my body, my soul, my mind and all that I once was, because I am no more, let me fade into nothingness, give me the last merciful gift of satiating your hunger with what I have left.
Or just simply.
Let me listen one more time.
Please, I beg it, I implore it, I demand it, I trade it, I sell it, I barter it, I want it, and most of all I need it.
Why can't I understand who I am now without being able, to hear, if only for the last time.
The voice of the one I loved, and that I can't remember.
Yarid wandered the streets of the oasis looking for time in something that was mildly amusing, he has a few acquaintances in this area, but they are not people to turn to when looking for a quiet view. His feet lead him through the market and its various passages, which covered with cloth at different heights, protect pedestrians from the desert sun, thus creating a walkway that is attractive to many, stores of all kinds flood the adobe buildings, as well as itinerant stalls that can start from a simple tarp on the ground on which the vendor's goods rest, to wooden carts modified to open and sell.
The sun does not stop walking and the afternoon falls as a consequence, some torches are lit, especially in the passages where the night trade is the center of business, among them, the brothels area, perhaps just out of curiosity, or with some desire that is intense to be repressed, the march takes Yarid to these places, although their pockets could not cover the services offered, there are not few who come here just to increase their thirst by soaking their eyes in the exotic beauties that this oasis provides.
Many young women and also men walked in front of their respective workplaces, extending an invitation to clients who seemed to be able to pay for what they offered. It is worth mentioning that these young men were often marked as sex slaves, or offered themselves to this type of work due to certain circumstances, it was not strange to see on their hands the characteristic marks of their identity.
And in some of the buildings opened the doors facing the street, to present their exotic goods, behind beautiful railings of wood, bronze and other materials, were presented to passersby, the diversity of the entire continent in some streets away, redheads, brunettes, blondes, and other hair colors, accompanied the skins, and the different eyes of their owners, prime material, only available to those with the guts and a very heavy bag of money, to negotiate the price of their sale or lease.
Women with the most diverse measurements on their bodies, for anyone's taste, men with abundant and scarce musculature, seductive lines surround each of their bodies, in addition to their provocative costumes, their makeup that enhanced their expressions and features, and the smell of perfume and incense of an intoxicating strangeness.
A store with the most exquisite bombons that could be tasted, but again, only for those who can afford them, for the rest, it just seemed that their eyes were doing harder work to remember what they can see, and the aroma of these passages seemed to reach their throat reminding them of how thirsty they can feel in the desert.
Almost inebriated Yarid decides to take the next passage to take his way back to his inn, when he is presented with a very familiar sight, in the showroom facing the street of the renowned brothel The Desert Flower, a pale young man with black hair, lost gray eyes, a matching black slim body jacket that covered his shoulders back and chest, but ended there to show the rest of his torso, a pale skin, striking in the current environment, such as the oasis in a desert, a kind of dark gray cloth pants, very short almost looking like underwear more than anything else, allowed to revel in his legs until reaching his bare feet that rested on a luxurious carpet, on his wrists and ankles some silver ornaments that almost seemed to hide his identity altogether as shackles. These goods have not been marked, because their buyers would wish to impose their personal mark in the future.
Yarid's mouth cannot quite close at this sight, a young man who has no warrior's muscles, but still striking, he looked like a being who comes from a world where there are only two colors black and white, but his pale pink lips seem to emphasize that this is part of reality, sitting with an expression as simple as any other, it made him even more exotic, sighing he turns and resumes his course, once again he raises good wishes for that strange young man, at least he could see him one more time before fate falls upon him.
