Kai (voice-over, still diving into his memories):
My learning… it was far from a blessing.
Learning to read, write, speak… it was not done with colored pencils or songs. No. Each mispronounced word, each spelling mistake, was a blow. Brutal. Harsh. Repeated. Again and again.
We spent six hours a day on it. Naked, lined up like beasts. There were many of us. And the rules were strict:
No talking among ourselves.
No looking at each other.
No existing except to learn.
I eventually turned five. And strangely, all that… I started to find "normal." The blows, the chains, the electrified collars… it had become my everyday life.
One day, I was taken out of my pen for a reason I didn't know. My master held me on a leash as always, and we walked through the central courtyard of the domain.
That's when I saw her.
A girl. My age. But… different. She wore clean clothes, her hair was neatly done, her cheeks rosy. She was running, laughing, carefree. She fell in front of me, stumbling awkwardly.
I looked at her like at a strange creature, from another world.
Why wasn't she chained?
Why was she wearing clothes?
And above all… why was she smiling?
She got up, wiped her knees, and candidly said to me:
"Oops, sorry!"
Then she smiled at me. A bright, childish smile… despite her two missing teeth.
My master rushed to her:
"You must be careful, Mizellla. You could have hurt yourself…"
I couldn't believe my ears. This man — the same one who electrocuted me for a speech mistake — was speaking to her gently. Like a princess.
She then pointed at my face:
"That one is looking at me weirdly! Hahaha!"
She laughed. I didn't understand what was funny.
And then… she held out her hand to me.
"What's your name?"
I wanted to answer. I really tried. But I had no name.
My master cut her off:
"Mizellla, you must not play with a slave. They are not made for that."
She frowned:
"A slave? What is that?"
She didn't understand. She didn't know what we were. What we lived through. And worst of all… she was not even aware of her ignorance.
She looked at me seriously:
"That's not fair. Why can't I play with him?"
But a man's deep voice rang out:
"Mizellla! It's time for your favorite cartoon!"
It was her father. The head of this whole slavery network. White suit, hat on his head. A smile as cold as a winter without fire.
"I'm coming, dad!"
She gave me one last look, the same naive smile on her lips:
"Goodbye, slave! I hope we'll see each other again, haha!"
And she left… full of energy. Full of life.
Me, I stayed there. On the leash. Silent. Frozen.
At six, they handed me a pile of old clothes. Without asking, I put them on. Then, they led me to a stream — or maybe a river — I don't remember. What I do remember is the crowd of children my age, bent over the water, rough hands holding battered containers and filthy rags. All busy with the same labor: searching for gold.
That day, for the first time, they removed the collar from my neck. But the chains on my feet stayed. My master simply said:
— Wait here.
He pointed to another slave, a bit older than me. The boy came toward us, soaked, his face marked by fatigue. He looked tough… but in his eyes there was a kind of softness, a strange light, almost brotherly.
The master ordered him:
— Teach him to search for gold in the river. He is ready to join you.
The boy nodded silently, then motioned for me to follow.
He led me to the riverbank, where the current was calmer. The water, murky and icy, carried a strange metallic smell. He crouched down without a word, then rummaged through a pile of rusty scrap metal and broken wood. He handed me an old battered container, with tarnished metal, almost too heavy for my small hands.
— Here, take this, he whispered. You'll need it.
He sat down just beside me, feet bare in the water. With slow gestures, he filled his own container with sand and gravel at the bottom of the stream, gently scraping the bed's silt. Then, he began shaking the bowl in a circular motion, controlled, patient. The water gradually carried away impurities, leaving at the bottom a fine layer of heavier, almost shiny particles.
— You must not be in a hurry, he said without looking at me. It's the water that does the sorting, not you. You let it happen, you watch. What remains… that's what matters.
I tried to imitate him, clumsily. My container trembled in my hands. The sand spilled, and my numb fingers couldn't keep the rhythm. He stopped my motion, repositioned my hands.
— No, look… Like this. Gently. Keep the surface tilted. Let the water in, but not too fast.
He spoke softly, almost as if confiding a secret. And for a moment, I believed him: that if I did it right, if I mastered this movement, something precious would eventually appear. Something that would shine. Something that would save me.
But it was only mud, gravel, and hours of silence.
Days started piling one on another, like blackened stones at the bottom of a well. Every morning, at five thirty, the guards' shrill whistles ripped us from sleep, and already voices clapped, already hurried footsteps, already the cold.
I no longer needed anyone to explain what to do. I grabbed the same battered container, walked to the same spot by the stream, knelt in the still freezing mud. Me, like the others. Like all the others.
From five thirty in the morning to five thirty in the evening, without a real break, without a single word wasted. Just the motions. Fill. Shake. Watch. Empty. Repeat. Again. Again. Again.
Some children talked at first, tried to laugh, to encourage each other. But over time, words became rare, empty gazes. The water swallowed the sound. The wind passed like a whisper of despair.
There was no Monday or Sunday. Only hours scratching the stream bed, hoping to see a gleam of gold in the mud. Sometimes, a boy would shout with excitement upon finding a shiny speck. Guards would show up immediately, snatch the find from his hands, take notes, then leave. The boy? He received no reward. He sat back down, trembling fingers, and continued.
Weeks turned into months. Then months passed like shadows, and two years slipped away without ever really announcing themselves.
Every evening, a lukewarm, too watery porridge was given to us in iron bowls. We no longer spoke much. Eat, swallow, sleep. It was the only real break. Then, when the floodlights went out with a crack, a whistle sounded again.
— Bedtime!
Chains clanged. Latches slid. Dormitory doors slammed in the darkness.
And then it started again.
Again.
One day, a boy younger than me collapsed near the shore, his fingers frozen in the mud. He trembled, unable to hold his container. A guard approached slowly, like a predator sensing disorder. He said nothing. He just raised his baton and struck him on the back.
Once.
Twice.
The sound of the impact made the water around startle. No one moved. The boy screamed once, then nothing. He got up on all fours. He retrieved his container from the mud. He resumed.
And the river kept flowing, indifferent.
I was eight. It was a Thursday.
The sun was high, and our tired bodies bent once more over the water in search of traces of gold. The creek's warm current washed away neither dirt nor exhaustion, but it had become our routine.
Then the guards appeared.
They ordered us to stop. With a sharp, silent gesture. No need for words.
So we stopped. We got up slowly, backs bent and hands numb, and looked at them without saying a word. Our eyes spoke, but they did not know how to listen.
That day, Mizellla came. With her father.
As always, she was impeccably dressed — knee-high polished boots, gloves too white to touch the dirt. She held her father's hand, her gaze curious, yet distant, as if all this was just theater scenery.
Her father swept his gaze over us, with that satisfied expression of those who feel powerful amid silence.
Then, smiling at his daughter:
— Today is Mizellla's birthday. You will do something lighter.
He expected something. A sign, a reaction, maybe a thank you.
But we no longer knew how to applaud. So we stayed frozen, empty faces, muscles too tired to feign enthusiasm.
Mizellla looked at him, then at us. She squinted.
— Daddy… why do they look so tired?
Her father shrugged and replied with icy nonchalance:
— You think they look tired? It's their normal face, don't worry.
She did not answer. She just looked at us, like watching an old wall, with a kind of silent fascination.
We were then led to the fields where the women of my tribe worked.
They weeded, planted, sweated.
We were told to help, so we took up their pace, pulled weeds, buried seeds in the earth.
It was easier than sifting stones in a stream, despite the sun's bite on our necks.
I had crouched down to plant. My fingers traced small furrows in the earth. The gesture calmed me.
Suddenly, a soft voice behind me:
— You… I feel like I know you!
I turned around. Mizellla was staring at me, one eyebrow raised, head tilted.
— Oh yeah? I simply said.
— Yes. You're the slave, aren't you?
I said nothing. I lowered my head and continued planting my seeds, one by one.
— You don't say anything?
— What could I say? Everyone you see here is a slave.
She widened her eyes.
— What? You all have the same name?
I sighed.
— It's not a question of name. We don't have any, Mizellla. Not really. We're not named, we're designated. They call us for what we do, not for who we are.
She crouched beside me.
— What is a slave?
I stopped. My gaze met hers. She was not playing, not mocking. She really wanted to know.
— A slave… is someone who obeys. Who has no right to say no. Who works, without rest, without choice. And if he disobeys… he is whipped.
She backed away slightly, shocked.
— What? That's… that's cruel!
I stared at her, eyebrows furrowed.
— You think so?
My question sounded almost like a provocation.
But deep down… I did not know.
I did not know if it was cruel.
It was just… life. My life. That of all I loved. That which I never had the luxury to question.