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The first thing he felt was his mouth, horribly dry. He ran his tongue over his cracked lips and tasted the filth, sweat, and blood that coated them. They were full of sand, too. Everything around him was full of sand. He remained lying there a while longer, not daring to open his eyes yet. What time was it? Did it matter? Obi-Wan raised an arm over his face to block the glare seeping through his closed eyelids, stuck together with crusted discharge. What day was it? The questions began to swirl like dust devils. Obi-Wan knew that soon everything would start to feel too exhausting, too painful. Soon he would have to take his medicine.
He tried to swallow, but it hurt. His throat was particularly irritated. He had sores inside his mouth and had no idea where they had come from. It could be the suffocating desert heat, some allergic reaction, or the violent orgasms strangers forced upon themselves using his mouth. Did it matter? Well, if they hurt badly enough, yes, it mattered. At least they disappeared on their own, along with many other ailments in his body whose causes he didn’t know and couldn’t possibly treat right now. It wasn’t worth wasting energy thinking about it. What mattered was taking the medicine.
He exhaled sharply and, with great reluctance, opened his eyes. He was relieved to find himself in the same place that had sheltered him for months. A cave that protected him from the merciless twin suns of Tatooine, from the planet’s usual carrion, as well as from any foolish hope of sticking his nose into matters that were already lost. In any case, if there was anything left to be done, Obi-Wan was not the right man for the job. If a resistance against the Empire ever arose, many hands would surely be needed, but not his.
Still, the day seemed to be shaping up as one of his good ones; he had woken in the aforementioned cave he could call refuge. He made a small movement to make sure he was alone and sighed in relief when he confirmed it. There was nowhere for anyone to hide from him in that cave, and no one would survive long out in the open, not even a drunk. He was alone, and that was good.
But that small movement came at a price. The moment the rest of his body realized he was awake, his muscles seized all at once, cramped and ready to torture him. Nausea forced him to sit up; bile burned through his gut and throat, adding yet another foul taste to his mouth. Obi-Wan stretched a trembling arm toward an old bottle lying on its side nearby, next to his “bed,” which was nothing more than a mound of worn-out clothes. He shook it and felt an exhausting wave of relief when he heard the faint clink of liquid striking glass; he had done his job and left a little for the morning. Without that help, leaving the cave and going into town to get more medicine would turn into hell and make him collapse. That was how he had lost everything that remained of his old life. That was how he had lost ownership of his own body. But Obi-Wan could no longer afford that... not without something in return.
There was no time to waste. He uncorked the bottle and swallowed the rest in one gulp. The alcohol burned his bruised lips, ran down his throat like acid, and dropped into his empty stomach, which twisted in pain. As soon as his body received its medicine, the trembling stopped. Obi-Wan sighed in relief. He had to get another dose as soon as possible. He had to move now.
When he stood up, sharp pains stabbed different parts of his body. It could be from not having a proper place to sleep or because someone had messed with him last night. The good thing was that he remembered nothing. He rarely remembered his drunken spells. It was one of alcohol’s great mercies; it granted him a few hours of hysteria and then erased all traces of what had happened. The deplorable state of his body was the only reminder.
He patted his pockets and, of course, found nothing. Not a single credit. He hadn’t handled money in a long time. You couldn’t pass out and carry anything valuable at the same time; you had to choose one or the other, and Obi-Wan preferred unconsciousness. He gave himself a quick look-over: dirty clothes clinging to his body with sweat, plus worn boots he had won from a guy in a bet. That was what he had for now... at least it made him look functional. He knew he reeked of booze, but paying for sonic showers was a luxury he couldn’t afford very often. In any case, it didn’t matter.
It turned out it was near sunset when he woke. The passage of time was a roll of the dice for Obi-Wan; the only way to check the hour was to step outside the cave. That was another good thing about the day. Night was his intimate friend, there was little to no shame in it. Anyone wandering the alleys of Tatooine after dark had nothing good to offer, and Obi-Wan felt kinship with that kind.
There was no time left to beg a few credits from kind-hearted citizens, so Obi-Wan hurried to one of the seedy cantinas he frequented. There was usually someone who needed some kind of job done, and paying starving drunks with cheap liquor was fashionable on that desolate Outer Rim planet.
***
“Good… morning to you, handsome Ben,” greeted a Twi’lek prostitute named Vesha at the entrance to the cantina, chatting with others in the same line of work. Vesha was smoking a deathstick that reeked of burned rubber. “Joining us already, or did you wake up feeling too sophisticated to mingle with the rest of us?” she joked, and Obi-Wan returned the smile, his eyes fixed on the Twi’lek’s rotten teeth.
“Well,” he said, his voice coming out hoarse. Obi-Wan cleared his throat and continued. “I’d rather start with something simple for a change. I feel like I’m about to get sick. I’ll meet you guys later.”
“Come here, sweetie.” Vesha wrapped an arm around him and placed the deathstick between his lips. Mechanically, Obi-Wan inhaled. The smoke was thick and left a very bitter taste in his mouth. Smoke enough of it, and it would turn your lips and mouth black, as if coated in soot that could never be washed away, while your teeth rotted and eventually fell out on their own. Obi-Wan smoked deathsticks occasionally out of courtesy, like now, but they were not his preference.
“Good luck,” she said with a conspiratorial smile, then returned to her companions. Obi-Wan headed inside the cantina. He was sweating profusely and felt time racing before his eyes, his heart pounding as if it wanted to join the race. That small interruption with the Twi’lek could make all the difference. He needed to hurry. His head felt enormous, as if pushing his eyes out of their sockets. He felt deeply uncomfortable. There had to be something simple to do. Something quick. Scrub vomit, deliver a package, anything to do right now.
The atmosphere was horrendous. The suffocating heat merged with clouds of black smoke filling the hall, making everything feel like a dream—no, a nightmare in real time. There was live music as always, played by drunks just as desperate for booze as he was. The shrill voices of the patrons competed with the noise from the stage, and Obi-Wan already felt dizzy.
“There you are.”
Wuher, the bartender, greeted him while pouring drinks behind the counter.
“I need something to do,” Obi-Wan said. There was no time for small talk.
“You can wait a table.”
“Okay…” he replied, wary. From the bartender’s tone, he knew it meant trouble.
“Over there.”
Obi-Wan felt pain in his empty stomach. Fuck…
It wasn’t unusual to see stormtroopers on Tatooine. In fact, it was the best job you could get on that planet. Most were local boys who preferred to formalize their thuggery under Imperial protection rather than remain enslaved by crime syndicates or live the dangerous life of bounty hunters. On Tatooine, though, the three often blended together so thoroughly that the only difference was the uniform, and whether you were good enough at what you did to build a reputation.
At a glance, Obi-Wan knew they were ordinary bullies. Small, tailor-made dolls of the Empire, meant to intimidate locals already left defenseless to their fate. Braggarts.
He sighed and looked at Wuher with a pained expression. “Alright.”
“You’ll need this.”
Obi-Wan gratefully accepted the double shot the bartender handed him. He didn't waste a single drop. His body reacted immediately. Suddenly, he no longer felt trapped inside a dream. The cantina came alive along with his body, flooded by a brief surge of energy, one he would work hard for that night, to feel again and again until collapse.
“Good luck,” Wuher said, handing him the tray of shots he had to serve.
***
“Now that’s a doll right here!” one of the troopers said when Obi-Wan served each of them a drink. There were five of them, and they were already drunk. With a single glance, Obi-Wan identified what they carried that he could sell that very night, if he managed to knock them unconscious.
“A bit worn out, don’t you think?” another one laughed.
“But this ass feels like durasteel,” a third joked, squeezing his buttock with one hand. “Who made this ass, doll?” he pressed. “Did the Pykes throw you out on the street when you got too old?”
All five laughed, and Obi-Wan said nothing. He knew that line of work far too well to bring any trace of dignity to the table.
Whenever he wasn’t serving them, Wuher set him to other tasks, like cleaning up vomit and whatever else no one wanted to deal with. The payment: a shot now and then.
Just as Obi-Wan had predicted when he woke up, this was turning out to be one of his good days.
Later on, as he collected the glasses from the bar, a man addressed him.
“Let’s make it quick. How much?”
Obi-Wan looked at him. A low-grade bounty hunter. Worn clothes, just as desperate as he was to get fucked up. He was probably carrying a couple of light weapons. The man was about his age, with sun-beaten skin and yellow teeth. That last detail was a good thing. Teeth rotten from deathsticks made him vomit. His hands were swollen and calloused, his nails long and splintered.
“What are you staring at, you filthy whore?” the bounty hunter demanded, feeling judged. “I asked you a question.”
Obi-Wan glanced toward the troopers’ table. It would take a few more rounds of shots to finish them off, and at the moment they seemed to be on the brink of euphoria. Good for them, bad for Obi-Wan.
“Ten credits,” Obi-Wan ventured, just to say something. He already knew how this scene would play out.
“Pft,” the man scoffed. “Half a bottle of sunburn for your pretty ass. I’ve seen you around here before. I know you’re not worth more than that.”
Obi-Wan couldn’t help glancing back at the troopers, who were shouting and roaring with laughter.
“I’m better than five,” the man snapped, a sly expression on his face.
“A blowjob. One bottle of spotchka,” Obi-Wan offered. He knew that at some point in the night he would have to go whoring with Vesha, but he didn’t want to feel that dirty so soon.
“Tsk.” The man seemed to weigh the offer, but Obi-Wan knew it was a trick; he knew he would accept it gladly. “Are you good?” he asked.
“The best you’ll find around here,” Obi-Wan replied with a faint smile, and the stranger licked his lips, eyes gleaming.
Obi-Wan knew the man was a broke fuck. He didn’t need anything elaborate, just something to spend himself on for two minutes.
“Deal.”
***
In the alley, the echoes of the cantinas mixed with the murmurs of passersby and the sounds of sex of every kind unfolding in the shadows of shuttered establishments.
Obi-Wan felt the sand scraping against his knees. He held his breath, and when he could no longer manage it, he breathed through his mouth whenever he had the chance; it helped control the urge to vomit from the smells and from the very situation he found himself in. The stranger had him by the hair, making rough motions to provoke gagging, simply to hurt him, but Obi-Wan knew how to control himself. He knew how to relax his throat, how to get through it until everything was over.
As he performed oral sex, the man’s moans drifted farther and farther away until they disappeared.
Then his mind projected a blazing sun in a perfectly blue sky. He could feel himself sitting on fresh grass, with a pleasant breeze brushing his face and gently stirring his hair. Before him unfolded a garden, wide and beautiful, filled with ponds and fountains. He knew that place like the palm of his hand.
And there was someone beside him.
Obi-Wan was certain he was sitting at his side. But he couldn’t turn. No matter how hard he tried, he could not shift his point of view enough to look beside him. Yet Obi-Wan knew who it was. He could feel him so vividly… That Force signature, blazing like a supernova, unique and overwhelming, could only be his.
“What’s wrong, Master?”
That voice.
His voice. So beautiful, so masculine… It felt present, very real. Perhaps it was. Obi-Wan often thought that maybe it was the Force inviting him to surrender, telling him that it was okay to give up, making the end of his days less painful.
Tempting.
“Master Obi-Wan,” the voice of his best friend called again. That was Anakin's voice, his beloved Anakin... he sounded as if he were about to share some bratty remark that could not remain inside his head and had to be told to Obi-Wan, either to make him laugh or to coax a small lecture from him. But Anakin never continued speaking, as if he were waiting for Obi-Wan to turn and look at him— yet no matter how hard he tried, it was impossible.
The stranger’s moans returned suddenly, like a thunderclap inside a nightmare, and the garden vanished. Obi-Wan felt hot streams fall across his face. The man muttered insults in Huttese as he came. Obi-Wan remained still, waiting for it to be over.
Then the man released him and walked away. Obi-Wan stayed motionless for a few moments.
His hand closed around the bottle inside his cloak, as if it were an amulet.
He finally wiped his face and stood up.
***
Obi-Wan decided to stay somewhere quiet to drink his medicine. The night was still young, and he would have to find another way to secure a second full bottle that would put him to sleep and bring the day to an end. Meanwhile, the one he had obtained would help him endure the pain for a few hours.
He sat in a spot at random to recover for a moment. He sighed and allowed himself to look up at the stars. At night, they shone beautifully in the sky, indifferent to all the suffering that took place on that forsaken planet. Though it was not his birthplace, Obi-Wan knew he was condemned, that he would always be bound to Tatooine. This desert had never been his home, but it would be his grave; the last place he would ever set foot in while alive.
Suddenly, he heard shouting. Disturbances were common, of course. Unfortunately, what he heard was coming from Wuher’s cantina.
Keeping a prudent distance, Obi-Wan saw several Imperial speeders outside the establishment. People were crowding together, shouting at one another.
“This is robbery! I’m not paying you a damn credit, you starving cunt!” one of the troopers slurred, drunk as a skunk. “Not a single credit!”
Obi-Wan noticed Wuher trying to throw them out. “It’s on the house. Now get out of my bar!”
The argument between the owner and the drunken troopers turned into a street fight. People had plenty of reasons to hate troopers and want to beat the shit out of them at any opportunity; the more experienced troopers knew that, which made the situation reveal that these were rookies. Easy prey.
Obi-Wan knew he had to get as far away from the place as possible, and he was about to do just that when suddenly a kid brushed past him, shoving him on purpose.
Like a dream, the boy turned to look at him with a twisted expression, and Obi-Wan could have sworn the child was Anakin. The sandy-haired boy in white robes was his Anakin.
The shock was so great that he dropped the bottle. His medicine. It struck a shallow rocky ledge and split clean in two, as if by black magic. The cruelest magic Obi-Wan had witnessed that day.
Obi-Wan felt a stab in his stomach. I am dead, he thought, like an epiphany, staring in horror as his medicine seeped into the sandy ground.
Like a puppet manipulated by a ventriloquist, Obi-Wan moved toward the scene of the fight, where the boy identical to Anakin Skywalker had slipped away, perhaps to pick a few distracted pockets. It occurred to him that maybe now that Wuher was busy, he could replace the bottle with another one and pay for it later. A loan. He had to do it right now.
But then someone grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him backward. As if the commotion had been behind a curtain suddenly pulled open, Obi-Wan saw that a pack of stormtroopers had arrived at the scene. They were dispersing everyone. The clever ones fled; the rest, like him, were in for a night in the cells of the nearest Imperial station.
Obi-Wan watched everything as though it were a scene unfolding with him as a spectator. His gaze searched for the shattered bottle on the ground, but he could see nothing beyond the legs protected by the troopers’ white armor.
They lifted him like a rag doll. Why didn’t he fight back? At this point, Obi-Wan was no longer thinking about defending himself. He couldn’t. The Force had abandoned him long ago, when he failed at the most important task of his life. When he killed his best friend and lost everything he had once loved and known.
Fight back?
What for?
***
Obi-Wan trembled. His entire body was incapable of performing even the simplest coordinated action, like brushing away the vermin crawling over his leg, gnawing at the fabric of his trousers to bite into his skin. The cold he felt seeped so deeply into his bones that he thought they might all shatter at once with any of the cramps twisting through his muscles.
He was dying. He could feel the cold of death around him, inside his bones, in his chest, in his stomach. The floor of the cell felt like lying naked on an iceberg that pitched violently from side to side, like an old ship in the middle of a furious, dark ocean, churning his insides.
He vomited again. Everything that came out was clear. There was nothing left in his stomach but alcohol.
“Master…”
Obi-Wan heard Anakin’s voice sobbing in pain. He heard it as clearly and as real as his own crying.
“Master… forgive me… help me… please… aaah!!!” Anakin screamed in torment. Obi-Wan could smell burning flesh, a horrifying contrast to the deadly cold that consumed him. “Help me!!! It hurts!!! Obi-Wan!!!” Anakin’s voice tore apart with every agonized cry. Obi-Wan could also hear the crackling of the fierce flames that must have been devouring the body of his Padawan, his beautiful boy, cut to pieces by him, by the one who had sworn to protect him and teach him everything he knew. Obi-Wan wished to trade places. There was nothing he genuinely desired more than to be the one burning in those flames.
Obi-Wan curled into himself and screamed as well. The ship he was on seemed to be sinking into the coldest place in the universe, and yet he could still hear the sound of fire and the agonized cries of Anakin, the Chosen One, the brilliant boy he left in ruins.
Suddenly, he saw him. Obi-Wan could no longer scream. His face twisted into the purest expression of horror, but his throat could not produce a single sound. He froze, eyes wide, staring at the dreadful apparition at his feet.
With charred skin and the most terrible eyes he had ever seen in his life, Anakin writhed as he was devoured alive by the flames. He screamed and screamed, calling Obi-Wan’s name again and again, begging for help, confessing a secret love, pleading for mercy. Anakin twisted like a black worm, his skin falling to the ground like melted tar, stretching out his robotic hand until he managed to touch Obi-Wan. The contact felt exactly like what it was— burning metal piercing his flesh and turning his bones to ash, melting them into the sand of the desert planet.
***
He felt drops of milk wetting his lips. Obi-Wan woke with a start, and the charitable hand allowed him to drink long gulps. He was so desperate that he choked, and the gentle hand stroked his back. Obi-Wan allowed himself to think of Beru. Perhaps it was Beru. Maybe he was in her house. Without yet daring to open his eyes, he held his breath, waiting to hear the familiar sound of a child... a beautiful little voice, full of life.
Then Obi-Wan would open his eyes and see Luke, a child as beautiful as his father, looking back at him with the bluest, purest eyes in the universe, like a little god. Then Luke would try to touch him, perhaps his cheek, and Beru would tell him not now, that Uncle Ben needed to rest. But the child would insist anyway and touch him, and the caress would feel like forgiveness for everything Obi-Wan had done, for everything he had failed. The child would know everything, everything he had done to his father; he would know all his mistakes, because Luke was special too.
He would know everything and still forgive him.
But the illusion was shattered by the voice of Vesha, the Twi’lek prostitute.
“The drink,” she told someone else. The next thing Obi-Wan felt on his lips was the cold rim of a glass. He downed the booze in one swallow.
“Are you all right, sweetie?”
Obi-Wan opened his eyes and found Vesha and other whores he knew.
“We came as soon as we heard about you.”
“They tried to fuck you, but it was impossible. They say you were like a madman. You managed to scare the whole station.” said another, as if it were the funniest thing in the world.
“Never for free,” Vesha repeated, like a mantra.
"They were glad to let you go. You're lucky," someone with a childish voice chimed in.
“We got you half a bottle so you can recover. You can pay me by working with us tonight.”
Obi-Wan looked at the bottle she offered and accepted it. That meant working for her, but Obi-Wan felt nothing but gratitude. On Tatooine, this was an act of genuine mercy.
He sighed and took a long swallow.