Page 15 of Tracking Shadows
I whistle to get his attention, not wanting to attract the guards. “Hey, big guy,” I call out quietly, nodding toward the conveyor belt. “You better get to work. They don’t like it when you just stand around.”
He doesn’t even look at me, just keeps staring off into the distance like he’s somewhere else entirely.
I grit my teeth. “Come on, man. I’ve been here long enough to know you don’t want to piss them off. You’ll get beaten for sure.”
Still nothing. The guy just ignores me. It’s only a matter of time before the guards notice him slacking off, and then it’s going to get ugly.
Right on cue, two men come stomping over, their faces twisted in annoyance. “What’s the matter with you, kid?” one of them growls, grabbing the guy by the arm and yanking him around to face them. “You think you’re too good to work? You think you’re better than everyone else?”
The guy still doesn’t say anything, just looks at them with this blank expression, like nothing they do can touch him.
The guard sneers, shoving him back against the wall. “You better speak up, kid, or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
The guy finally speaks. “What else can you take from me? I’ve already lost everything.”
There’s something in his tone that makes me shiver. It’s like he’s completely given up, like he’s already dead inside. Theguards don’t care, though. They just hear defiance, and that’s all the excuse they need.
“Fine,” one of them snarls, reaching for his whip. “If that’s how you want to play it.”
They start beating him, the sharp crack of the whip cutting through the air like a gunshot. He doesn’t cry out, doesn’t even flinch. He just takes it, standing there like a statue, as if the pain is nothing to him. I’ve seen plenty of beatings in this place, but this . . . this is something else.
Finally, the guards get bored or frustrated, maybe both. They give him one last lash across the back and then shove him down, spitting curses as they walk away to report to the boss. The guy just picks himself up slowly, limping back to the corner where he’d been standing before, and sits down, his back to the wall, his eyes closed.
The other kids go back to their work, avoiding his gaze. I try to do the same, but I can’t stop watching him. There’s something about the way he held himself, the way he didn’t break under the whip, that makes me curious. He’s different from the others.Tougher, maybe. Or just more broken.
When lunchtime rolls around, I grab my tray and head for the benches like I always do. Most kids here eat in silence, too afraid or beaten down to talk. But I can’t help myself. I’ve always been the type to make conversation, to crack a joke, even when there’s nothing to laugh about. It’s how I keep myself sane in this hellhole.
I spot the big guy sitting by himself, hunched over on one of the benches, his tray untouched in front of him. I don’t knowwhat makes me do it, but I walk over and sit down next to him. He doesn’t even look up, just stares at his food like it’s the most boring thing in the world.
“Hey,” I say, taking a bite of the bland, tasteless gruel they call food here. “You okay?”
He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge my presence. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this. Most people would at least tell me to fuck off, but this guy . . . nothing.
I shrug, not letting it bother me. “Suit yourself. But if you keep this up, they’re going to kill you.”
Still nothing.
I keep eating, talking more to myself than to him. “Been here for two years now. It’s not so bad once you get used to it. You learn how to keep your head down, do your work, and stay out of trouble. That’s the trick—just survive until you can’t anymore.”
He still doesn’t say anything, and I start to wonder if he’s ever going to.
Over the next few days, I make a point of sitting with the guy during lunch and talking to him even if he doesn’t respond. He’s quiet, but I can tell he’s listening. And slowly, bit by bit, he starts to open up. It’s nothing major—just small comments here and there, but it’s progress.
One day, as we’re sitting at the dining table, I crack a joke about the food. “They call this gruel, but I’m pretty sure it’s just flavored water with a side of sawdust.”
To my surprise, he actually laughs. It’s a small, quiet laugh, but it’s genuine, and it makes me grin.
“There it is,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “You should smile more often, you know. It suits you.”
He shakes his head, but there’s a hint of a smile still lingering on his lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I take another bite of my food, feeling more at ease than I have in a long time. “You know,” I say, swallowing the tasteless gruel, “I can tell you for free that there’s no way out of this place. Not really. You just survive until you can’t anymore.”
His smile fades, and he looks at me with a seriousness that makes my chest tighten. “That’s where you’re wrong. There’s always a way out. You just have to be willing to do whatever it takes.”
“Whatever it takes, huh?” I say, my tone light, though there’s a part of me that’s starting to wonder if he really means it. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s not,” He admits, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him. “But it’s possible. And that’s all that matters.They killed my family . . .. They took everything from me.”