Ray

Pain, loneliness, cold.

Ray doesn't remember the last time he felt warm — in any sense. It seemed that he had been cursed since birth: there was no father, and his mother was a prostitute, so there was no question of finding out who his father was. His mother died when he was at most 5 years old. The boy cried for a long time until he realized that crying was pointless.

It's the 17th century. A century of wars, cruel reigns of kings and executions. There was not enough food for everyone, only those who had money to go to the market or grow their own products. But to grow your own products, you need strength, and for strength, you need food.

Ray quickly learned to lie, cheat, and especially fight. He knew that a sweet lie was better than the harsh truth. Ray felt no guilt when he stole from poor people like him. But he stole little things, because he isn't a barbarian. Apples, cucumbers, sometimes even bread, if he's very lucky. Of course, he was caught a couple of times and told off with a slap on the head or threats to sue. But it was pointless — Ray was alone, he was only 21 years old and there was no one to stand up for him. And not that he wanted to.

Ray was young, he wanted warmth. But who will give him this warmth? Ray dreamed of touching his mother's gentle hands, hearing warm words of love and returning home... Broken knuckles, worn shoes and the smell of smoke and dirt, that's what became his home. The street is his house. He knows how to survive, lie and, most importantly, is not afraid of God.

His life once again dealt him a severe blow to his weak soul. Once, one of the rich, fat freaks caught him stealing some kind of sweet bun. Recognizing Ray by his face and realizing that he was an old thief, the rich quickly came to a decision.

A large religious cross was erected in the center of the main street, where people were usually executed on a wooden platform. Ray was tied up, stripped and tied to a pole. His hands were tied to the upper places of the believing cross, which vaguely resembled the crucifixion of Jesus. The people quickly gathered, many from whom Ray stole or offended in a fight recognized him and began to rejoice, throwing tomatoes or stones at him. It was not so much an act of pain as of humiliation and moral destruction.

But that wasn't the end. The rich men proudly came out, holding rods in their hands, and mercilessly began to whip Ray in the ribs, legs, hips and chest. Red streaks tore at the skin, trickles of blood trickled down, but Ray tried not to cry out of pain. His lips were bitten to the point of pain, and he only hissed and exhaled heavily from another blow.

Soon, the torture stopped and the rich men, laughing humiliatingly, left the wooden platform, leaving Ray tied up. They hoped it would kill him. That he would bleed out, starve, or die of dehydration.

People didn't subside for a long time, bright laughter and cries of death wishes echoed in Ray's head. But he is.. still.. He held on.. He couldn't..

People left, Ray was alone. Tied up. Hungry. Lonely. And suddenly, a single tear flowed down his cheek. He pursed his lips harder, tried to get out, but it was useless - the ropes only hurt his wounded skin more.

He let out a soft sigh and closed his eyes. Maybe if he dies, everything will be fine? Will he finally be happy? But no.. Ray wanted to live. He wanted to achieve something, wanted to be loved. But why is life so cruel to him? He's in so much pain.

Ray slowly closed his eyes, preparing to face the imminent death. Apparently this is his prophet. Goodbye cruel life. Or not...?