The world transformed, my eyes opened to that room, but this time with a 16-year-old me sitting in it. Was this how they felt, witnessing me? Someone who was still a child, broken, beaten,yet still with that look of defiance in my eyes. How poetic. Athena is really a devious bitch. She plotted this, surely, or at the very least wrote it in the code. How poetic indeed.
I knew it would be the room, with the same menacing torchlight, that only highlighted the blood on the floor. The walls, soggy with a putrid moss, loomed over me. Dammit, I still remember what I thought back then,the walls had eyes, and here I am, acting as those eyes. How fucking poetic. I knew this was the most traumatic part of my life, but I wondered,why did they show me this version? Barely a week into the torture, barely a week into the fear. I wasn't broken, not yet. I was scared for sure, but I didn't break. So that begged the question: what did they want to show me?
The boy sitting in that room,me,was so small. Smaller than I remember. His clothes hung loose, dirtied with grime and dried blood, a grotesque mosaic of suffering etched into every fiber. His face was hollow, sunken in from malnutrition and sleepless nights. And yet, there was fire in his eyes. A spark of something stubborn and untamed. It was strange, watching myself like this, as if I were both a spectator and an unwilling participant in the same tragedy.
I wanted to reach out, to tell him something,anything. That it would end, that he would make it out. But what could I say? What words could ever soothe a boy trapped in such a hell? The silence in the room felt alive, heavy, suffocating. Every flicker of the torch on the damp walls felt like a lash across my back, and every droplet of water dripping from the moss-covered ceiling sounded like the ticking of a bomb counting down.
How did I survive this? How did he survive this?
And yet, he did. I did. But survival isn't the same as living, is it? The boy in front of me wasn't just enduring physical agony; he was being reshaped, his mind broken apart and rearranged into something unrecognizable. I could almost hear his thoughts. The fear. The desperation. The fragile hope that clung to him despite everything.
But still, he sat there. Shoulders trembling but squared. His breathing is shallow but steady. His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Oh, how brave he was. How foolish. How tragic.
And by some wretched scheme, my question was answered with a scene shift. The boy within the room,me,was now on the verge of breaking. Oh, how poetic. They showed me how a man sat strongly; now they are showing me how weak and pathetic I was when I was on the verge.
The heartbreak I felt was absolutely agonizing. Why was I put through this? Was I targeted? Was I just some unlucky brat who thought the world revolved around him? What the actual fuck is this? How could I, a boy at 16 years old, be a victim to this? I wanted to laugh at the madness of it all. But I couldn't.
Why, why, why. Why did they have to show me this? Do they not know how long it took me to be okay with this? I didn't heal, absolutely not. I just ignored it, like all the other problems in my life. I could feel my heart slowing down. I could feel chains grabbing around my lungs, a pain that I never felt in my 21 years of living. A pain I never felt when fighting the chimera, a pain I didn't feel whilst in the realm of Morpheus. Oh, how painful is memory. How miserable it is.
And then, while I was still being headstrong, I witnessed the scene change once more. They finally showed it. A broken man. No, a broken child. I witnessed myself scream until I lost my voice. I witnessed myself cry until my tears turned red. I witnessed myself bleed from my eyes, wailing without sound escaping, until the blood stopped as well. I witnessed myself shake and convulse, till my body remained limp. And then came the sirens. Rescuing me from that hell. Ha, rescuing. What an overused word. I wasn't rescued, I wasn't saved. I still went through it all. I still… broke.
And then the scene finished, and the pain followed. Let me ask you all: have you ever felt pain? Not the pain of loss. Not the pain of injury. What I am going to do now is explain what true pain is. The pain I felt. Pain is… unrelenting, condescending. Pain is stomach-wrenching, muscle-clenching. Pain. Pain is the most evil thing I can explain. Pain comes when you least expect it, you bottle it down, hoping it dies while it is hidden under bravado and courage. But it never goes away. Pain latches onto you. It sees when you're asleep, it sees when you're awake. Waiting patiently like an apex predator waiting to pounce. And what can you do? Nothing. You try therapy, you try talking about it, but the pain prevents you from doing it. I had a therapist once. She went to therapy after talking to me. How fucked up am I? I sent my own therapist to therapy.
The pain took over me. I couldn't speak, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't scream. I was in and out of consciousness for what seemed like an eternity. But I knew it only lasted for a while. I am probably just exaggerating how long I was out of it. Yeah, you guys don't want to hear from a broken man, do you? Not at all. I'm boring you with the details. But I never felt like a victim before this day five years ago. Now I am facing it again. And I have no control over my own body.
Why, why, why. Why is this still affecting me? I am 21 years old, probably nearing level 100 now. Yet I am still feeling this. Why? Why the fuck is this happening to me? I wanted to scream. I wanted to shout. But I couldn't. Although the current expanse was endless, I felt claustrophobic. Then, as if by some divine miracle:
Your potential patron recognizes your pain.
I felt seen. I wasn't alone,not really. Even if it is someone I don't even know. This 'patron' of mine knew my pain, he recognized it, he understood it.
In that moment, the weight lessened,not gone, but lessened. It was like someone had reached into the depths of my soul, into the festering wound where all the rot had been allowed to grow unchecked, and they placed a hand there. A hand that said, I know this. I see this. I feel this with you.
But is recognition enough? Is being seen truly enough to heal something so deeply fractured? I don't know. Maybe it isn't. Maybe the scars will always ache, and the nightmares will always linger. Maybe I'll always carry this weight. But for now,for this brief moment,it feels like something shifted. Something small. Something fragile.
And maybe that's acceptable. Maybe that's enough. Because, for the first time in what feels like forever, I can breathe again.
Finally, with a breath of fresh air, I saw a question before my eyes.
How do you feel after this? (⅓)
Oh wow. Oh wow. So this is the trial. They wanted to break me with this trauma, and then have the audacity to ask me how I feel. Wow. I felt like shit. I felt like I was that 16-year-old boy all over again. Small. Helpless. Drowning in emotions I didn't have the words for back then and still don't have the words for now. Why do this to me? Why now? Why in this sterile, cold space where every breath feels monitored, every twitch analyzed? I felt like all my pride, courage, dignity,everything I had carefully stitched together over the years,had been unraveled in one sharp pull.
I felt seen through. No, not just seen. Exposed. Flayed open and laid bare for something, I don't even know what, to pick through my broken parts. I felt like I was a five-star meal of trauma and brokenness served on a silver platter, garnished with sprigs of barely concealed rage.
But that isn't what they want, I don't think. They don't want honesty, not really. They want some profound bullshit about how I grew through witnessing this. About how I emerged stronger, wiser, a shining beacon of resilience. But so what? So what if I'm supposed to sit here and perform emotional eloquence for them like some kind of trained seal?
No. I'm going to be honest.
I opened my mouth, and with a voice sharp as daggers, I said, "Like absolute shit. Give me the next question, you bitch."
Now, I know what you're thinking. It isn't a good idea to antagonize an almighty system, but you guys know how it is. A bad habit of mine. One I'll probably never change. So what? The words were out there now, sharp and irretrievable, and I was bracing myself for consequences that never came. Instead, a new question appeared before me.
If you were to tell your younger self one thing, what would it be and why?
The fuck is this? An English lecture? A TED Talk? Why are you asking me this as if there's some profound, life-altering answer waiting in the wings of my mind? The truth was,I didn't know. I had no idea what I would tell my younger self. What could I possibly say to him that would change anything? Is there anything I could tell him that would make the pain lessen? Probably not.
I knew how I was after that incident. I didn't care for anyone. I didn't accept help from a single soul. I trusted myself least of all. My mind was a prison, and every thought was another guard keeping me locked in. What could I say to him now that would make a difference? What words would reach him through the walls he had already started building? None, probably. But still, I tried to find something,anything,that might resonate.
And then an answer came to me. An answer that he would appreciate. It wasn't the full truth, but it wasn't a lie either.
"You will live through this and reach higher heights. It won't be easy, but it will be necessary. And it will get better. I wish you nothing but the best. Remember,always trust yourself above all others. As for why I would tell myself this? There's nothing else I can say. Any explanation would hurt him. But at least he's seen."
I let the words hang in the air for a moment, their weight settling around me like a heavy coat. Surprisingly, they were accepted. No rejection, no snide remarks, no cruel reminders of inadequacy. Just... acceptance.
And then came the final question.
What will you do now?
Seriously? Seriously? After all of this,after dragging me through my worst memories, after peeling back the layers of scars and old wounds,you want to know what I will do now? As if I'm supposed to have some grand, cinematic plan ready to deliver with a bow on top?
Were these questions designed to force me into introspection? Was this whole process just one big exercise in emotional excavation? And now, at the end of it, you want me to offer you some neat little resolution? A promise? A direction? Ha. How hilarious.
There's nothing I can do, is there? I've accepted that this trauma is me. It isn't something I can scrub away or package into a tidy narrative. But I also know I can't bury it again. It would be pathetic,I would be pathetic,if I went back to old habits. But where does that leave me? Somewhere between acceptance and paralysis, I suppose.
I wish I could say I had some philosophically profound answer, but I didn't. The truth is, I didn't know what I would do. Not really. But I knew one thing: I couldn't let this moment slip away without anchoring it to something real.
So I opened my mouth once more and simply stated, "I will remember this and not forget how I was at my weakest."
The words hung there, simple yet heavy. And for once, it felt like enough.
There was no applause, no grand revelation, no triumphant music swelling in the background. Just silence. The kind of silence that feels like both an ending and a beginning.
And maybe that was the point.
It was at this point i got my grade
Trial Complete
Level of Trauma A-
Level of Response B
Rewards Allocated
The realization hit me hard,my trauma wasn't even the worst. Grade A-, they said, like it was some sort of consolation prize. "Not even that bad," I muttered to myself, the words cutting deeper every time I thought of them. Yet here I am, broken, struggling to function, stuck in a spiral of shame. How pathetic is that? To feel so utterly wrecked by something that, apparently, isn't even the worst? The weight of it all crushed me, and I hated myself for letting it. I wanted to scream, to claw my way out of this pit, but instead, I sat there, choking on the idea that my pain was somehow less valid.
What stung even more was the thought that I wasn't unique. I had always believed no one could truly understand what I'd been through, that my pain was too big, too personal for anyone else to grasp. But now I'm being told that others have it worse, that I'm just a small fish in a vast ocean of suffering. It made me feel insignificant, like my struggles didn't matter. The shame twisted into anger,at myself for being so weak and at the whole concept of measuring pain. But beneath the anger was fear, a nagging voice that whispered maybe they're right, maybe I really am just not strong enough. And that thought, more than anything, left me drowning.
Whilst I was struggling with my emotions, I felt the familiar feeling rush through my blood. A sign that I was about to present myself to the king once again.