The rejected crown

Bound by time

~ezra
The morning sun barely pierced the dense smog hovering outside the cracked windows, casting a sickly, grayish light across Ezra's room. The air smelled stale, a faint mix of rust and chemicals, as his phone's alarm shrieked from under a pile of threadbare clothes. Ezra groaned, his mouth dry and parched, as he fumbled to turn it off. He squinted at the cracked screen: 8:20 AM.

"Crap!" he muttered, jolting upright, the peeling paint on the walls flaking off with the movement. School was a mandatory slog, the government-issued education his only chance to possibly climb out of the endless poverty. The bell rang at 8:30, and it was a long walk through the trash-strewn streets.

Scrambling, he threw on the least-stained clothes he could find, a faded T-shirt and a pair of jeans he'd outgrown two years ago. He stumbled to the bathroom—a narrow, dim space with rust-streaked walls and barely a trickle of water. He splashed his face, the cold water biting, and caught a glimpse of himself in the broken mirror. Dark circles loomed under his hollow eyes. He looked older than his 19 years, weathered and worn.

Ezra grabbed his backpack from the floor, then nearly collided with his sister, Mia, who sat on the edge of the mattress in the other corner, crunching stale cereal out of the box.

"Late again?" she asked, voice muffled. "You're gonna get in trouble. Again."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, snatching a slice of stale bread. "See you later."

Outside, the streets were worse than usual. Piles of garbage lined the sidewalks, and thick clouds of smoke billowed from factories in the distance, churning out endless supplies for the state. He hurried down the cracked sidewalk, dodging potholes and the occasional stray animal that scrounged among the trash. The towering remnants of crumbling skyscrapers loomed above, casting long, oppressive shadows over everything below.

He finally reached the car where Alex waited, leaning against the door, looking just as exhausted. "Dude, hurry! You know Mrs. Harper's out for blood," Alex said, a hint of desperation in his voice.

Ezra slid into the passenger seat, slamming the door. "Just drive. Let's get this over with."

They pulled up to the school building, a stark concrete block surrounded by barbed wire and faded banners touting government slogans. As they rushed inside, the bell had already sounded, its harsh tone reverberating through the bleak hallways.

Mrs. Harper's eyes were icy as Ezra slipped into the classroom, her voice dripping with disdain as she called him out immediately. "No homework again, I presume?"

Ezra just nodded, bracing himself.

"Detention," she said, her lips curling in satisfaction. "Three hours. You'll need it."

After class, she stopped him by the door, pressing a dusty, ancient-looking book into his hands. "Read this," she said. "You'll be tested on it. Fail, and you're out."

Ezra glanced down at the title: The Fractured Realm. He groaned internally but took the book. Another worn-down relic of history, another tedious punishment.

As he flipped through the brittle pages during detention, words like "plague," "uprising," and "collapse" jumped out at him. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, rubbing his temples. History seemed like an endless cycle of destruction, and the present didn't feel any different.

He pulled out his phone, typing a quick message to Andrea, hoping she'd cheer him up.

"Hey, babe," he sent, waiting for a response. Seconds ticked by, and finally, her reply popped up.

"Heyyy! Missed you!" she texted back.

A faint smile crossed his face. "Sorry, can't make it today. Got detention. Again."

"Seriously? Ugh, I was looking forward to getting out for a bit."

"Yeah, me too. This sucks. But I'll make it up to you," he typed.

Delivered. Her reply never came.

Sighing, he returned to the book, forcing himself to read. "The Devon Witch Trials... a time of intense persecution and suffering... the seeds of rebellion that would change the world..."

As he continued reading, the words blurred together, his eyelids growing heavier with each passing moment. Before long, he collapsed onto the desk, the book slipping from his hands.

When he opened his eyes again, the familiar sight of his classroom had vanished. Instead, he found himself sprawled on a hard cobblestone street, the sun beating down mercilessly. Blinking against the brightness, he pushed himself up and looked around in confusion.

The air was thick with smoke and sweat, the sounds of shouting and clanging metal enveloping him. Merchants called out in a cacophony of languages, their stalls overflowing with vibrant fabrics and exotic spices. Panic gripped him as he realized he was not in his room anymore.

His heart raced as he noticed the rough, tattered shirt that hung loosely on his frame. Calloused, dirt-stained hands gripped the cobblestones as he looked down in horror. "What the hell is going on?" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. A chilling weight clanked at his ankles—chains.

"Get moving!" barked a gruff voice nearby. Ezra's heart dropped as he turned to see a man in a long, dark coat. His piercing eyes glinted with menace. Around him, a group of young men, all similarly dressed and shackled, shuffled forward, their expressions grim and resigned.

"Wha—where am I?" Ezra stammered, confusion flooding his mind. The man frowned deeper, impatience radiating from him.

"Keep your mouth shut and move!" he snapped, shoving Ezra forward. The crowd surged around him, oblivious to his confusion and fear.

As he stumbled, the horrifying reality of his situation crashed down on him. He was in the 15th century—a time rife with exploration but also exploitation and suffering. He had become one of the very people he had read about—the enslaved, caught in the merciless machinery of a world he had only known through the pages of history.

Each step he took felt like a weight pressing down on his chest, a painful reminder of the freedom he had lost. He glanced at the faces of the others around him, their eyes hollow and devoid of hope. Fear gnawed at him. Would he ever return home? Would he ever see Andrea again?

The oppressive atmosphere thickened around him, and he could hear distant shouts and the clattering of chains. He fought to suppress the rising panic within him. This was no nightmare; this was his reality now. He had to navigate this brutal world, to find a way back before it swallowed him whole.

"This must be a nightmare," he whispered to himself, but deep down, he knew he had to wake up and face the truth—or risk becoming another ghost lost to history.