Children of Gehenna

Tristan's eyes snapped open to the dim light of morning. He bolted upright with a startled shout. 

"Fuck off!" he yelled, his voice cracking—trying to banish the lingering images of fire and horror. 

Before Tristan could gather his thoughts, a heavy hand came crashing into his chest and yanked him back onto the rough sand. The sudden force left him gasping for air, his heart pounding in his ears. A gruff voice barked. 

"Get your ass up, damn it!" 

The guard's tone was as rough and coarse as beach sand under Tristan's hands.

The man's face, half-hidden in the early morning light, was etched with irritation. Tristan's eyes, still wide from the terror of his dream, met the guard's for a fleeting moment. In that instant, as Tristan cried out in confusion, the guard's hand—now furious and unthinking—delivered a sharp punch to Tristan's jaw. The impact forced Tristan's head back, and he fell onto the sand with a thud.

For several heartbeats, he lay there dazed. The taste of blood was bitter on his tongue, and his vision danced between the remnants of his nightmare and the reality of the beach. He could still hear the guard's words as he slowly came to his senses.

 "You're on Gehenna now, Don't think a scream is gonna save you here!"

The guard stepped back, eyes narrowed, his fist still clenched as if daring Tristan to react. Tristan's head pounded from the blow, but he forced himself to sit up. Every muscle felt heavy, but he knew there was no time for weakness now. Around him, the beach was a lonesome stretch of sand bordered by a stand of ancient trees and the distant, unending ocean.

There were no tents, no organized shelters—just a scattering of dazed prisoners, most of them still in shock. The beach was an expanse of raw, unforgiving nature, offering no comfort or refuge. Each person seemed alone, clinging to their own private nightmare. The usual murmurs of conversation were absent; instead, an oppressive silence had settled over the group.

A few moments later, the guard's heavy boots thudded down the sand as he hurried toward the boarding platform where a makeshift assembly had been called. 

"Listen up!" he roared. "The captain wants to speak to you all." His voice carried across the beach, leaving no doubt that dissent or disorder would not be tolerated.

The guard's command snapped Tristan fully into the present. Slowly rising to his feet, he pressed a hand against his throbbing jaw and staggered toward the group of prisoners. His legs felt weak, but his situation forced him to move. Every step was punctuated by a mix of pain and confusion, the earlier nightmare now a distant echo amid the harshness of the day.

The large group of prisoners began to congregate around the platform. They looked weary and lost, eyes vacant or flickering with a raw, unspoken fear. 

A sudden commotion drew Tristan's attention to the far end of the beach. A young prisoner, barely more than a boy, had started moving toward the thick stand of trees that bordered the sand. His steps were indecisive, but it was clear he intended to leave the beach. Before anyone could react, a shout rang out, 

"HEY, GET BACK HERE!"

Within seconds, one of the guards sprinted toward the boy. Tristan watched, his eyes fixed on the unfolding scene, as the guard tackled the young man. The boy's face twisted in panic, a few other prisoners flinched at the sight. The guard tugged him roughly back to the crowd, delivering cruel kicks along the way.

"Anyone else thinks they can run?" the guard spat, his voice low and threatening.

The display was brief but brutal. With the young man now in devastating pain on the sand and the guard's warning echoing in the air, the crowd fell silent once more. Tristan felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach as he surveyed the harsh scene.

Unable to remain a silent observer, Tristan moved slowly toward a small cluster of prisoners gathered near the edge of the assembly. Among them, an older man with weathered skin and sharp searching eyes stood apart. The man's presence was quiet but authoritative. As Tristan approached, the older man spoke in a low, measured tone.

"You're jaw holding up well?" the man asked, his voice steady despite the tension in the air.

Tristan hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yeah… I'm Tristan," he replied, his voice rough from the earlier shock and the lingering taste of blood.

The older man's eyes met Tristan's, and for a brief moment, there was a silent understanding. 

"Name's Roderick," he said simply. "Listen well—there's nothing here but the edge of survival. We're all trying to figure out what to do, but right now, keep your head down and watch your step. The guards don't like trouble, and the captain's orders are clear."

Tristan's thoughts recoiled. Roderick of all names? As if the sentencing to Gehenna wasn't cruel enough, he now gets to be reminded of the person who started the accusations of him being a traitorous rat. Tristan absorbed Roderick's words, feeling a mixture of resignation and determination stir within him. 

As the bright sky began to settle over the island, a light glow blanketed the beach. The sound of the waves grew louder and more insistent, as though they were the only constant in this unstable world. Tristan sat on a smooth rock, the gritty sand beneath his feet a stark reminder of his new life. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to push away the images of the nightmare, the guard's punch, and the brutal display of punishment for those who tried to escape.

In his mind, Tristan replayed the guard's harsh words and the image of the young prisoner's broken form. 

'There's no escape here,' he thought. 'There's only submission and survival. But survival isn't enough—not if I'm to ever reclaim my life.' His internal dialogue was raw and unfiltered, a mixture of anger, fear, and a deep-seated determination.

The wind shifted, a slight chill rising from the sea as the captain stood before the group, his expression cold and unyielding. Tristan could see the man's eyes sweep over the ragged group of prisoners, some already resigned to their fate. Behind the captain, the guards stood in formation, hands resting on their weapons, silently observing.

The captain's voice cut through the air, deep and commanding.