Sahaad's sleep was uneasy, filled with flashes of memories that weren't his own. Images of the boy's past—his father's harsh hands, his mother's pleading eyes, the dim streets of Babylon—whirled together in a feverish storm.

Bam!

A sudden, sharp pain snapped him out of his restless slumber.

A kick to his side.

His eyes flew open, and he gasped for air. Sahaad's ribs ached, the pain radiating through his entire body as he scrambled to sit up. His father loomed over him, his face twisted into an ugly sneer.

"Get up, you lazy brat," the man growled, his voice slurred from the effects of whatever cheap drink he had found last night. "You think you can sleep all day? Useless!"

Bang!

Sahaad's body reacted instinctively, curling up to protect himself as another kick landed squarely on his thigh. The shock of pain shot through him again, and rage began to simmer deep within his chest.

This body might have been used to the abuse. But Sahaad—he—was not.

His hands clenched into fists as his father's insults continued to pour out, vile and venomous. The older man staggered slightly, his posture wavering as his injured leg buckled under his weight, and Sahaad's eyes flicked toward the source of the weakness.

The wound. The accident that had turned his father into this bitter shell of a man.

As Sahaad watched the man leer over him, his rage deepened, the lines between his old life and his new one blurring into a haze of resentment and fury. He could feel his blood boiling, the frustration of two lives colliding within him.

His father eventually turned away, showing his back to him. "You better get me some damn money, or I'll kick you out the house", he warned.

Seizing the opportunity, his eyes darted toward the broken ceiling of the shack, where small bits of the mud-brick roof had crumbled away over time. A jagged piece of tile lay on the floor near his feet. He reached out, his fingers curling around its rough surface.

His father's voice was still droning on, berating him, blaming him for everything that had gone wrong, when Sahaad finally snapped.

He lunged.

His body moved faster than his thoughts, driven by pure instinct. The tile felt heavy in his hand as he swung it down, aiming straight for his father's bad leg. The jagged edge of the tile connected with flesh and bone, and a sickening crunch filled the room as his father let out a howl of pain.

Argh!

The man collapsed to the floor, clutching his injured leg, his face twisted in agony.

But Sahaad didn't stop.

Fueled by anger, he mounted his father, pinning him to the ground. His heart pounded in his chest, and the world around him blurred into a red haze. The tile came down again, this time aiming for his father's head, but the older man raised his arms to protect himself.

Sahaad's strikes were wild, frantic, the tile smashing against his father's arms again and again, each blow filled with years of pent-up rage—both his own and the boy's whose body he now inhabited. His father cried out, his voice breaking as he tried to push Sahaad off, but the boy was relentless.

The older man's resistance weakened as the blows continued. The sound of the tile hitting flesh and bone was sickening, but Sahaad barely noticed. All he could think about was the years of abuse, the pain, the humiliation—he was done being a victim.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, his father's arms dropped to the ground, and he raised his hands in surrender, his voice hoarse and broken.

"Stop… enough… please…"

Sahaad froze, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His hands were shaking, the tile in his grip slick with blood. He looked down at his father, whose face was pale with fear and pain, his once-dominating presence now reduced to a pitiful, trembling man.

The sight was almost enough to snap Sahaad out of his fury, but he didn't move. His body hovered over his father, still poised to strike again if necessary.

His father's eyes—bloodshot and filled with terror—stared back at him, pleading for mercy.

For the first time, Sahaad saw something he had never seen in the man before.

Fear.

The tables had turned.

Sahaad breathed heavily, his heart still pounding in his chest, but the rage inside him slowly began to ebb away. He loosened his grip on the tile, allowing it to fall to the ground with a dull thud.

He stood up, his legs shaking beneath him as the adrenaline began to wear off. His father lay on the ground, gasping for breath, his body trembling in pain.

For the first time in this life Sahaad wasn't the one cowering.

He stared down at the broken man beneath him, the one who had ruled this house through fear and violence, and felt… nothing. No pity, no sympathy. Just cold, detached indifference.

"Don't ever touch me again, or I swear to the king you will never be able to muscle ever again", he furiously whispered.

With that, he turned away, leaving his father lying on the floor as he stepped out of the house, the sun beginning to rise over the horizon.

Suddenly, a thought flickered in his head and he ran back to his father, still shriveled into a pathetic ball.

He stomped the man one more time, earning a groan.

"Where'd you put all the money", Sahaad asked, however the man was still whimpering paying no attention to the boy's words.

Sahaad grabbed the broken tile, now crimson with dripping blood. He held it over his father's face, feinting an attack. His father's body lurched in an attempt to protect his face from any further injury.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

"Where… are the damn … coins", Sahaad asked again, calmly.

"Please…please, it's under my mat… where I sleep. I'm telling the truth, please don't hurt me anymore"

Sahaad gave one more kick for good measure, before heading to where his father would usually sleep. However there was nothing there, besides the ragged straw mat, darkened by various splotches of alcohol.

He turned to his father, again, staring at him with a threatening expression.

"It's under, look under. Please I'm not lying", his father choked out.

Thud

Sahaad tossed the mat harshly, straw pieces released from their binding filled the room. He noticed a small hole dug into the ground where the flooring had been broken off. In it was a small, brown pouch tied into a knot.

The pouch clanked with the sound of metal as he picked it up. He untied the knot and the pouch opened up, revealing a plethora of small silver coins.

The shekel

It was the currency of Babylon. Adorned with the image of a farmer on one side, and the barley that made so many farmer's livelihood was sculpted onto the other side of the coin.

He inspected the coins for a second, biting down on it to verify its authenticity before flicking it back into the pouch.

After wrapping the pouch, Sahaad headed for the door once again. A glass bottle of alcohol lay prone beside him. Sahaad picked it up to inspect it trying to satiate his curiosity. The bottle had a label wrapped around its circumference, with an unfamiliar text printed on it.

I should get around to learning how to read, Sahaad realized the language he had been speaking in this new world was not the English he was accustomed to. He had used the memories from this body to instinctively communicate with the locals, however the boy never learned how to read or write.

The label had a mascot of the company, a caricature of a king holding up a tall glass of alcohol, and a large smile decorated the mascot's face.

Sahaad was confused by the printed image, something that should have been made thousands of years after this era.

Was someone else from the future also transported here?

Suddenly his stomach began to growl, a sharp reminder that he had not eaten in what felt like days.

Sahaad stepped out of the shack and into the early morning light, the cool air a welcome contrast to the stifling tension that had filled the house just moments before. His father looked at him with eyes of disdain and fear, but Sahaad ignored him as he made his way out.

Sahaad noticed a small pond near his house. His feet were bloody and charred from walking on the rough, sandy roads without any protection, he needed a place to wash himself, so he made his way to the pond.

The pond's water, once perhaps clear and inviting, were now a dull, stagnant green. Algae coated the surface, broken only by the occasional ripple from a stray insect or a breeze that barely stirred the thick air. The pond smelled faintly of wet earth and something more acrid, a sour tang that hinted at waste or decay.

Sahaad brushed away the algae revealing a still blue surface from which he could see his own reflection. Finally getting a look at the new body, Sahaad sighed in pity.

Sahaad's physical appearance was a stark reflection of the harsh life he had been forced to endure. His frame was small and frail, a boy barely ten years old, but he looked even younger due to his malnourishment. His face was gaunt, with hollow cheeks and sharp, angular features and his bronze skin was covered in sediment, making it appear a gritty yellow.

Wrapped around his head was a makeshift bandage, heavy and damp, evidence of the injury he had sustained from his father's cruel hands. The bandage was a crude collection of rags, stained with dried blood, covering a wound that still throbbed beneath the surface.

He washed his hands in the water, freeing himself of his father's blood.

Sahaad began to slowly peel the bandage away. The first tug sent a jolt of pain through his skull, causing him to wince. He clenched his jaw and continued, working his fingers under the edge of the fabric and pulling gently. The material clung stubbornly to his skin, stuck in places where blood had dried, fusing the bandage to the wound.

He gritted his teeth and tugged a bit harder, feeling the pull of the fabric against the scabbed-over gash. The sensation was sharp, like tiny needles digging into his scalp. The dried blood cracked and flaked as the bandage slowly came free, revealing patches of tender, raw skin underneath. Each tug felt like it was tearing at him, but he didn't stop.

As he worked his way around his head, the cool air hit the exposed wound, and Sahaad winced at the sudden sting. His fingers trembled slightly, but he kept peeling, layer by layer, until the final strip of fabric fell away, landing in his lap.

Sahaad gingerly reached up to touch the wound, his fingertips brushing the edges of the gash. It wasn't deep, but it was ugly—a jagged cut that had partially scabbed over, with raw, red skin around it. His scalp throbbed beneath his touch, still tender from the injury, and he could feel the heat radiating from the inflamed flesh.

Tossing the cloth aside, he cupped a pool of water, spreading it over his face. He winced as the cool liquid made contact with his heated forehead, sending a sharp pain through his head. He cupped some more water to clear the sediment from his face and wash his wound.

After being satisfied with his cleaner face, he used his tattered tunic to dry off. Small pain was still present on his forehead, but the wound had mainly been healed and was in no danger of being infected.

The streets of Babylon were just beginning to stir, the first few vendors setting up their stalls in the marketplace. Sahaad walked aimlessly for a while, his legs moving on autopilot, his mind lost in the strange mixture of emotions swirling inside him.

As the sun crept higher in the sky, he fumbled in the small pouch he carried on his waist, his fingers brushing against the cool metal of the coins.

His feet led him back to the marketplace, where the hustle and bustle of the day was beginning to pick up. Merchants shouted their prices for fruit, grains, and fish, their voices blending into a chaotic hum. Sahaad made his way through the crowd, weaving between the vendors and customers, keeping his head low. He spotted a stall selling bread—flat, round loaves stacked in rough piles on a wooden table.

The vendor was a gruff-looking man, his face weathered from years under the hot Babylonian sun. He barely glanced at Sahaad as the boy approached.

"Two loaves," Sahaad muttered, placing his coins on the table.

The vendor scooped up the coins without a word and handed him two small, rough loaves. The bread was dense and coarse, the crust cracked and hard from sitting out in the open air. Sahaad held the loaves in his hands, feeling their weight. They were heavier than they looked, and not in a good way.

He found a quiet corner of the marketplace, away from the crowds, and sat down on the edge of a crumbling wall. He bit into one of the loaves, and immediately his face twisted in disgust. The bread was dry, with a gritty texture that stuck to his teeth. It was stale, tasteless, and far from what he was used to. Back in his old life, he had eaten soft bread, warm and fresh from the oven. This… this was barely edible.

But it would do.

Sahaad forced himself to swallow the mouthful, his stomach protesting even as his hunger drove him to take another bite. Each chew was a struggle, but he knew he had no choice, such was life in the ancient city.

After choking down half of the loaf, Sahaad stood up, tucking the second piece of bread into the folds of his tunic. His mind wandered back to the slums, to the people who lived there.

With a sigh, Sahaad started walking back toward the homeless camp. The marketplace faded into the background as he made his way through the narrow, winding streets, his footsteps echoing softly against the dirt path.

The slums of Babylon, with their crumbling houses and desolate atmosphere, felt oddly familiar now. In the short time he had been here, it had already become his reality, as much as he hated it.

When he arrived at the camp, the sight of the ragged people huddled together under makeshift shelters greeted him. They looked as they always did—tired, hungry, and defeated. But there was something different in Sahaad's mind this time. He no longer felt the same helplessness that had consumed him before.

He spotted Mr. Amar sitting by a small fire, his back hunched as he warmed his hands over the weak flames. The old man's clothes were as tattered as the rest of the camp's inhabitants, but his eyes were sharp and kind as he looked up at Sahaad's approach.

"Ah, Sahaad," Amar greeted him with a weary smile. "You're up early."

Sahaad didn't say anything at first. He reached into his tunic and pulled out the second loaf of bread, holding it out to the old man.

"Here," Sahaad said, his voice quieter than he intended. "For you."

Amar's eyes widened in surprise, his hand hesitating for a moment before he took the bread. He looked at Sahaad with something close to gratitude, though he didn't say anything. Instead, he just nodded and tore a small piece of the bread, chewing slowly.

"You didn't have to do that," Amar said after a long silence, his voice thick with emotion. "Where did you get the money for it, your father…"

"Don't worry about my father", Sahaad stretched out his tunic emphasizing a small area where small drops of his father's blood had dried up

Amar simply nodded before going back to finishing the bread. Sahaad sat down next to the old man, staring into the weak flames of the fire.