Life is a quiet ordeal, fleeting, yet thick as honey in the way it drips down the sides of an hourglass that must eventually turn again. Perhaps that is reincarnation, and perhaps life is exempt from time, no set rhythm to it all. The pendulum swings as it likes, and, sometimes, you can blow to quicken it, or use your hand to slow it.

It is a day outside when Aleksej, a fresh age of thirteen, begs to anyone that will listen above to be able to slow the ominous tick. A day, because he can't see outside, not when surrounded by brick and with sterile, chemical scents ambushing his senses. He's trapped, he's certain, and it's all so horribly vile, he could gag and spit and puke up everything that has ever touched his stomach.

But that is not an option, either.

Hunger rips at his insides like an ugly beast, its claws tearing searing wounds into his stomach lining and clutching with utmost rage at the hollows of his ribcage. His throat is so horribly dry, it feels as if he could not speak even if he had anything to utter besides bloodcurdling screams, and he's certain this is his grave, his final resting place.

He's wrong. He's wrong, and in the most inhumane way possible.

After all is said and done for what he assumes is the day, he's stitched back up like a useless doll, and tossed into a cold and dark room in the same manner — careless and without concern.

Entire body aching and seeping blood from the parts of the sutures that fail to hold together flesh, he wants so desperately to be alone, to be able to curl up in a ball in the corner and forget everything, because he's already learning that screaming does nothing, and that leaves him with nothing but nightmarish memories that are staining his mind the second he coils against the freezing brick wall behind him. The coolness is soothing, yet painful — almost like frostbite, but not to such an extent. What is not soothing is that he is far from alone, and his eyes open to four other children, appearing to be around his age, in just as horrendous a state. One of them bears scars that make him wonder just how many years the poor soul has been here, and, yet, the unfortunate thing, this boy with dark blue eyes, looks at him straight-on.

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It makes him feel vulnerable and exposed again.

He dons an oversized white t-shirt that the other kids are all also wearing, and, to some benefit, it's just enough fabric to clutch like a vice, like he might have clutched his mother's skirt, if she were here. It's just enough fabric to pull his legs under and bind his whole body to his chest, to imitate one of her hugs, even if it isn't near close to the comfort she provided.

He still can't speak, throat hoarse from endless cries of pain and agony, and he swallows hard and nearly goes into a fit of flashbacks when he realizes he can't forget the feeling of a scalpel penetrating flesh — his flesh, at that.

Judging by the looks of them, he doesn't think the rest of the crowd can, either.

All he can hope to do is stuff his hand against his lip, a fresh cut across it that will surely scar, and staunch the bleeding, pretending he can't feel the warm carmine trickling down his pale hand.

In the corner, a girl shuffles, kind almond eyes focusing on his sad attempt at stopping the bleeding. Then, she's making eye contact, and her voice comes out crackly, yet somehow a comfort in this sudden explosion of hell.

"You're number five."

That number would come to haunt his every waking moment.