Ben had awoken from slumber in a deep sweat. That nightmare was beyond unusual. He had realistic livid dreams where he could move, but this one was too real and he felt like he was glued watching whatever those things were. He looked at his skin to see goosebumps. He'd had a few dreams before where he was going threw a bad withdraw, still nothing like that. Since he was awake Ben but his dirty clothes on and opened the blinds to his cramped hotel room. The sun was just beginning to rise over the endless sea of shacks in Dharavi. Opening the window he breathed in that robust air only found in ‎Maharashtra. Morning would be the perfect time to leave for the train station.

The slums were crowded in the morning as everyone was rushing about to go to work or to grab water before the heat rose. It was also when pick pockets were active, taking advantage of the tired people moving about. Ben fortunately knew how to avoid this. He simply put his money in the bottom of his shoes and around his neck, too awkward a place for anyone to get close to without getting caught. He grabbed some bread at a small vendor on his way, spending some cash on sweet bread. After taking his last bite into the bread he saw it.

A large plume of smoke had arisen over the shacks from what looked to be half a kilometer away. As Ben jogged closer he could see it was a roaring firing in what had at one time been a shanty apartment. Some people ran out, some crawled out, others died without hope of rescue as the building caved in. Ben watched as those that had died were laid on the ground and there was no sign or noise of anyone responding. He was staring at a young boy who had died choking on the smoke, a simple fix had the city sent anyone to help. As he watched the boy's parents grieve over the death of their child, a feeling of uneasy importance rushed over him.

Ben knelt next to the mother and reached out to touch the boys forehead. He honestly had no clue to why he was doing it, he just felt that he should. Then suddenly a surge came through his arm and he felt out of breath. The strangest thing happened next. The boy began to breath! Ben looked as amazed as the boy's parents. Out of an unreasonable urge, he repeated this on the other victims, all breathing yet again. The young man collapsed on the ground, leaning against another shack, amazed by what was happening. God must have blessed his hands. Maybe he was a saint?

The floor felt cold against his face as he lay there, his brain taking a few moments to begin processing events again. He felt damp and tired as he pushed himself up unsteadily, his fingers parting the congealed vodka that trickled across the tiles. The world around him still felt distorted, strangely distant yet almost perfectly clear for the first time in years despite that.

He stumbled a little as he dragged himself to a nearby dining chair; his hands righting it back to its normal position before sitting down as it had fallen over presumably when he’d landed on the floor during the night. His head was pounding as he rested it against the palms of his hands, trying his best to try and reorganise the events of the previous night into some sense of cohesion. His thoughts were a mangled mess of distorted images, blurred vision and too much shouting.

As he sat there he could feel his mind slowly ticking away to itself, despite all the working parts being flooded in vodka and gummed up with flashes of a nightmare he couldn’t quite place. He glanced around the room, taking in the bare walls and shabby furniture which was broken up by a few cardboard boxes which held what amounted to his life these days. His fingers gently closed over a bottle on the table that was still half full as his eyes landed on one of the more prominent items in the room; namely that of the tattered noose next to his fingers.

As he slowly lifted the bottle he could feel his hand shaking as memory began to flood back, compounding his misery and weariness. His life seemed to be a shambles that was barely being held together, and for what? He’d found his sister hanging from the ceiling after years of living without her only for his life to crumble and to return and try to fix things only for them to almost fall through his fingers. He’d left her in the hospital, or maybe he’d been thrown from her room while she recovered. He didn’t really recall… no… his mind may still be a jumbled and pickled mess but he’d known what happened. He tried to sit with her but they wouldn’t let him, someone had dragged him away. With force and made sure he wouldn’t come back and he’d left, lost and alone till he found comfort in a bottle. He felt an anger bubbling inside for a moment before realising the bubbling seemed to be coming from the vodka rather than simply being poetic licence.

He’d spent far too long in the bottle he decided and stared at the simmering glass in his hand for a moment before he placed it firmly on the wood. Smelling somewhere near how he felt he stood up as best he could and made his way to the shower, needing to tidy up and get himself presentable. Maybe not for his own benefit but for that of his sister.