Hamstung
The market lay in a haze of heat and dust. Stalls that once overflowed with fruit and grain now offered little more than shriveled vegetables and jars of stale grain, guarded as if they were treasures.
The air was thick, dry, and restless; every step stirred up clouds of red-brown dust that clung to skin.
Merchants fanned themselves lazily with bits of woven palm, their voices hoarse from calling out prices in the scorching air.
Children darted between baskets, their bare feet kicking up powdery trails, lips cracked from thirst. A goat tied to a post bleated weakly, its ribs visible through its skin, while a group of women argued over the last jug of water, their voices sharper than the sun overhead.
The smell of spice, normally rich and inviting, now mixed with the acrid scent of dry earth, making the market feel less like a place of life and more like a furnace.
As days passed, the citizens of Hamstung longed for rain to pour, to quench their scorching thirst. But their wish was far from being fulfilled.
The wells were quickly drying up, and the town was running out of water.
Joya moved slowly down the street, her steps uneven, dragging as though each one cost the strength she no longer had.
Her face was pale, drained of color, lips cracked and dry, and the faint shimmer of sweat on her brow was dulled by dust.
Her eyes, once bright, now seemed sunken and unfocused, darting ahead only in desperate search for water. She swallowed hard, her throat rasping; she wiped away the beads of sweat on her forehead, then furrowed her brows.
Her hair was matted with mold, her teeth stained a deep brown. Bruises mottled her skin, grime clinging to every inch. Her nails were crooked and jagged, while her once-short hair had begun to grow in uneven clumps.
The dress hanging from her frame was ragged and torn, little more than tatters draped over her frail body.
Her feet were no better—sore and raw, the skin red and torn. Bruises marked her ankles, and scars laced across her soles. Each step looked like it carved pain deeper into her bones, yet she dragged herself forward on them.
Above, the sun blazed fiercely and mercilessly, the weight of heat pressing down on everything beneath it.
"Please… some water," she begged, turning towards a man standing outside a wine store, clasping her hands together, her voice cracked and dry, her hollow eyes fixed on him in desperate hope.
"I do not have enough to share; go somewhere else." The man rebuked her without empathy.
"Not…not even a drop?"
Joya was desperate; the man was about to rebuke her for the second time when the sound of clustered voices reached their ears.
From a distance three camels trudged down the market path, their backs bent under heavy barrels sloshing with water.
Every eye in the crowd followed them. That water was not for the thirsty mouths around—it was meant for the royal family of Hamstung, imported from far across the kingdom.
Suddenly the murmur of the crowd swelled into a low, restless grumble. Their eyes, hollow with thirst, locked upon the swaying barrels of water strapped to the camels' backs.
The way they stared hungrily, almost…more of desperation. To them, those barrels were not royal provisions; they were life itself, paraded cruelly within their reach yet forbidden to touch.
"What about us!
A tattered-looking man gathered among the crowd screamed.
"We also need water; don't our lives matter?"
He said, throwing his hand in the air in a heavy protest.
The crowd began to chant, voices rough and rising, a protest torn from dry throats. Bodies pressed tighter together, slick with sweat, rubbing against one another as they marched forward.
The guards stiffened as the restless wave of bodies inched closer.
"Yes! We need water; give us water."
Soon hands shot out of the crowd, stretched forward with trembling fingers, toward the barrels on the camel.
Some brushed the wood, just barely… But the man riding high on the camel brought out a whip and used it mercilessly on them.
The lash cracked through the air and landed across arms, backs, and faces. The crowd recoiled with pain, cries and curses mingling under the blistering sun, yet others surged closer, driven by thirst fiercer than the fear of the whip.
"Give us water! Give us water!
The riders managed to mingle their camel out of the crowd, continuing their journey to the royal castle. The crowd that had gathered slowly began to disperse, some grunting in agony.
Amid the dispersing crowd, Joya's eyes trailed to a bakery store. Her eyes were sharp from hunger. A man who was the owner of the bakery was among those raining curses on the camel riders.
Joya dashed through the crowd, her focus fixed on the last loaf; she hadn't had anything to eat all day. She was terribly thirsty, but that could wait.
She didn't pause to weigh the risk. Hunger had long burned away hesitation.
Her fingers trembled as she reached out for the warm loaf; its golden crust cracked where steam still breathed from within.
Her fingers curled around the bread, pulling it into the shadow of her arm, hiding under the ragged cloak she was wearing. She claimed it swiftly; every second mattered.
But just as she turned to leave, something caught her attention, and she froze.
Across the stall, crouched near a broken cart, a boy watched her.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that stare. The loaf of bread grew heavier under her arm, her heart thumping in her chest.
The boy remained silent, but a woman nearby glanced sharply. Her eyes widened, and instantly a voice cut through the noise.
"Thief!"
Joya's pulse leapt.
Thief!
The lady screamed for the second time, pointing her index finger in Joya's direction.
Joya's chest clenched, and instinct seized her legs before thought could. She bolted, her legs moving, spurring into a hot run.
The baker spun at the shout, his eyes narrowing at the sight of a hooded figure darting away, a loaf clutched under her arm. His face went red with fury—the last loaf.
"Stop her!" he roared, his voice booming above the crowd.
"She stole my bread!"
Dust kicked up beneath Joya's feet as she shoved past shoulders and backs, slipping between startled men and women.
Her hood nearly slid back, but she yanked it low, veiling her face. Shouts erupted behind her, boots striking the ground in an angry rhythm.
The baker was already in pursuit, his heavy steps pounding after her. Others took up the chase too—two men, not out of loyalty to him, but out of hunger, rage, and the bitter thrill of watching someone get robbed in such a bitter economy.
Joya's heart hammered, every heartbeat echoing in her ears.
One mistake, one stumble, and the mob would swallow her whole.
Her bare feet slapped the ground, sharp jolts biting into her soles with every stride. Stones cut at her skin, but she didn't falter; pain was nothing compared to the fury closing in behind her.
She darted between stalls, knocking over baskets of dried peppers and spilling handfuls of dates across the dirt. Vendors cursed, some trying to grab her and force her to pay for their damaged wares.
The shouts of…
"Thief! Thief!" chased her through the chaos, swelling as more eyes turned her way.
Heads turned. A woman reached for her wrist. A man stuck out an arm to block her path. She ducked low, skimming past him.
She began to feel weary, but a glimpse of hope pricked when she gazed ahead.
There was an opening, a narrow cut between two leaning buildings, a dark alley.
She slipped into it without breaking stride, vanishing from the crowd's sight.
She plunged deeper into the narrow alley; the stench of damp and sour refuse hit hard, and she clutched her nostrils, feeling nauseous.
She kept moving, tilting her head backwards at intervals; suddenly, she slammed into someone.
A tall, lean man stood in her way; his hair was long and ragged, knotted into greasy clumps that hung over a face ravaged by dirt and time.
One eye glared at her, the other an empty, scarred hollow. His beard sprawled down his chest in tangled overgrowth, crawling with dust.
"What do you have there, girl?"
He said, using an absurd accent, his gaze dropped instantly to the loaf pressed under her arm.
When he spoke, his lips peeled back to reveal teeth the color of rotted brown, and his breath hovered around her like a sewer's stench.
Joya's eyes darkened.
Today the favor of the streets was turning its back on her. She stole, and now she was about to be robbed.
"That loaf," he rasped, pointing a crooked finger at her arm. Give it!
He thundered.
Joya slowly withdrew backward, her chest heaving as she gripped the bread tighter.
"It's mine; I won't give it to you."
This was something she had sweated for, putting her life on the line, and now someone wanted to snatch it from her just like that!
Behind her, the roar of the crowd grew nearer—the chase hadn't died; they were still after her.
At this point they didn't care about getting the bread back; they wanted her. She would be stripped naked and dragged along the street if caught; that was more than enough for them.
For a moment, hesitation flared, her stomach knotted, her body screaming to keep it. But the shadows pressed in, and the voices of pursuit crawled nearer.
She brought out the bread and pressed it against the man's outstretched palm.
The one-eyed man's smile split wider, his brown teeth glistening in the dim light.
The moment his fingers closed around it, Joya took off the ragged cloak she was wearing, leaving only a tattered gown covering her body. Her face that was concealed by the cloak was now in view.
She dropped the cloak on the ground near the man's feet.
"Enjoy your last meal!
She said before spinning around, she bolted deeper into the alley, her bare feet thudding against the ground.
The man didn't understand what she meant, but before he had time to ponder on her words…
The mob burst into view, the baker taking the lead, sweat streaming down his red face. His eyes locked instantly on the loaf of bread in the man's hand.
"There!" he roared, finger stabbing toward the one-eyed man.
The crowd surged, rage now diverted.
The one-eyed man's grin faltered, his eyes widening as men charged at him, raving like mad dogs.
The bread faltered from the man's hand, and at that instant three men pounced on him, throwing punches and brutally beating him up.
The man vomited blood, his eyes becoming swollen as he screamed in pain.
From the corner, half-hidden by shadow, the Joya watched. Her face shaded behind a wall as she peeked, but her eyes widened as she watched the chaos spilling before her.
The one-eyed man was on the ground, fists and boots crashing into him mercilessly.
He screamed, desperate, each cry cut short by another blow.
Joya pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her own heartbeat. She looked away, slowly closed her eyes, and tears trickled down her cheeks.
She gathered the remaining self-worth she had, then dragged herself towards the direction of an open pathway between some buildings.
"I can't do this anymore."
She said, wiping her tears, her lips trembling. This wasn't worth living for; why not just starve?
That could have been her, beaten to death. Yet here she was, still alive; she made up her mind never to return to the wayward life the streets offered.
Although she escaped, the man who tried to rob her was beaten until he breathed his last. He paid the price, the price every thief paid to survive on the street.