It was a crumbling mess that could not be called a roof.
Wooden strips of various shapes and sizes were stacked together in an irregular manner, forming what looked like a roof, but was in fact a crumbling relic.
The sunlight came in through the gaps in the wooden slats, and on the pockmarked ground, it cast a moss-like sickly light spot.
Around the pillar of light formed by the sun, floating dust, like a ghost surrounded.
Only where the light shines can the dust, which is imperceptible to the naked eye, take shape.
Such light makes the harsh environment look even more unpleasant.
However, this pillar of light, in the eyes of the boy, but shone with a divine light.
It was the holy light gun that represented decisiveness and could sanction everything.
However, it was just an illusion in the boy's eyes, it was just a glow that supported him to persevere and did not exist anywhere except in his imagination.
In the eyes of anyone other than him, it was just ordinary light and dust.
The gray sky, like a waste rag, shrouded everything with shadows. Those floating, that are more like black and gray clouds floating out of factory chimneys than something as white as clouds, shapeless and nearly shaped, constructing a dead corpse-like mournful imagery in the air.
The glow in the boy's brain saved him from the torment of the dead image in front of him.
Or rather, his brain, in order to protect him, gave him this false light, so that he escaped from reality, to escape, to seek a chance to live.
This reality of cheap sunlight becomes holy in the eyes of the boy.
This is the sunlight that anyone can easily see, but is also the hope that no one can touch.
This is a ruin that cannot be called a gymnasium.
The ruined walls of the gymnasium, as if staggered canine teeth, interacting forked to the sky, the fangs from the earth is only empty threat, completely unable to touch the sky.
In this environment of broken bricks and tiles, no one other than the boy could be seen.
"Why don't you move?"
However, this old voice, just appeared out of nowhere, no direction, no source of voice, seems to be from every corner of the surrounding, and as if it was generated directly in the mind in general. This is a voice that overwhelms everything with its own presence, with absolute power and majesty, making people unconsciously want to obey.
"Why don't you move?"
The boy who heard these words was like a machine that received an order, a servant who received his master's command, and as a being who did not even see any freedom and was even lower than a slave, he moved obediently and without resistance.
That, indeed, can only be described as moving.
Because, there is no more appropriate way to describe it other than "moving".
When are things described as moving? It is when they have been identified as not being able to move, not being able to move anymore.
The boy, who had not even the slightest piece of cloth to cover his body, fell to the ground, naked, in a frontal position, on the ground, with his arms and legs, morbidly twitching and trembling without any regularity. At such times, the feelings that should arise is pity or madness?
The answer is long gone from the mind.
The sight was hysterical.
And the boy, stubbornly, with difficulty, with his chin on the ground, looking ahead, looking at nothing ahead but the rubble.
He was holding on for the light that only he could see.
"Why, don't you move?"
The boy, who exists only to carry out orders, is far less than the dying candle of the Tibetan serf, which is waving with its last breath, trying to give off a little more fire.
Even if only a little.
Just to respond to this unreasonable request.
The boy, the puppet that was about to be destroyed, could already see the final sight of his fallen frame.
"Stand up."
The voice, once again, sounded.
As if he had not seen the boy's condition, he gave the order in a tone of voice that was taken for granted, without a trace of pity, without a trace of emotion, without even making the water ripple.
The boy's body, after a shiver, shaking mechanically, just to carry out the command to "stand up" to mobilize the limbs.
His tattered feet, calves, thighs, full of injuries, re-growth, dark red flesh, and the original skin spacing adjacent to the sickening fungus pattern.
This is already out of the realm of human beings, but still human beings will be identified as the human body of the decaying body, with no inch like human pieces, barely put together human beings.
Such feet, supporting the same scarred body, staggering, so that this body, known as a boy, stood up.
Keeping a standing position, that was just a matter of a moment. Not even, let no one think he ever stood up.
It was the clumsiness of a newborn lamb trying to stand up, yet far more cruel than the light of this life.
His feet betrayed him, his hands were abusing his body with pain, his head hit the broken bricks on the ground unprotected, and dark red body fluids flowed out, but could no longer stain the masonry that had already absorbed the blood.
He didn't move a muscle.
"Stand up."
The voice, dehumanized, repeated.
"Stand up."
The boy's body, like a demon, jerked violently, his body twisted in a monstrous way, making it impossible to believe that the boy was indeed a human creature.
Once again, he stood up. Black and red blood flowed over the boy's eyes, pressing down on his eyelids and eventually covering them, leaving him with only a black piece of hard skin where his eyes should have been.
For even less time than the last time he remained standing, the boy was once again, in the form of a broken puppet, scattered on the ground as a pile, a patchwork of human limbs and torso.
He had closed his eyes and lost consciousness.
Even so.
"Stand up."
This command, this voice, had seized the freedom of his body.
He was a monster in training.
He was a manipulated plaything.
He was a thorn bird that had never seen a thorn.
He was just a puppet on a string with nothing to lose.
In the ruins of what cannot be called a gymnasium, this sick creature, who cannot be called a boy, was forced to undergo a painful ordeal that cannot be called training.
This is a fragment of time that cannot be called a memory.
