Realm of Thorns

Joaquin woke up bruised. Again. The sting of the blows still lingered under his skin, dull and throbbing in his ribs and arms. He winced as he sat up, the threadbare blanket sliding off him. His small room was stifling, the morning heat already creeping through the cracks in the wooden walls. He could hear the soft, muffled snores of his father from the other room, sprawled out on the old wooden sofa, a half-empty bottle still clutched in his hand. It had been another bad night. Joaquin gingerly touched the dark bruise blossoming along his left arm, the skin tender and sore beneath his fingertips. His father's words from the night before echoed in his head, slurred with drink and venom. "Useless boy... it's your fault she’s dead!" Joaquin closed his eyes, trying to block it out, but the memory of his mother, lying weak and pale in her final days, came rushing back. The fever had consumed her too quickly, and no matter how much he had prayed, no matter how many tears he shed, she had slipped away from him. Her death had left a void in the house—one filled with rage, guilt, and resentment. His father had never forgiven him for it. He looked toward the faded photo of his mother hanging crookedly on the wall, her smile soft and kind, so different from the world he now lived in. His father’s anger had turned their once modest, loving home into a prison of harsh words and violence. Joaquin knew it was only a matter of time before it happened again. Maybe today. Maybe tonight. He threw on his tattered jacket and quietly slipped out of the house. The old wooden door creaked loudly, making him pause and glance back. His father stirred but didn’t wake. Joaquin released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and quickly stepped out into the warm morning air. The town of San Lorenzo was already alive with movement. Joaquin walked down the narrow dirt paths, his worn shoes kicking up dust. The town was small and poor, the kind of place where everyone knew each other's business. The houses were simple wooden structures with rusty tin roofs, some patched together with sheets of plastic or old tarps. Laundry lines sagged between the buildings, heavy with faded clothes swaying in the breeze. Joaquin’s stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. He walked past the local market, where vendors were setting up their stalls, the smell of fresh vegetables, dried fish, and old sweat mingling in the air. Women shouted their prices, their voices competing with the constant clucking of chickens and the occasional grunt of pigs in nearby pens. He felt the weight of the town’s poverty pressing down on him. It wasn’t just his house. The whole place felt worn, beaten down by life, the people here scraping by however they could. Sometimes it felt like the entire town was slowly crumbling, like an old memory left to rot under the relentless heat. As he rounded a corner, he heard a familiar voice. “Joaquin! Over here!” He turned to see Marco, his best friend, waving at him from near one of the stalls. Marco had a bright smile, his face still boyish and full of life despite the hard conditions they lived in. He had always been a little taller, a little stronger, and luckier than Joaquin—his family was poor too, but not broken. Joaquin walked over, his steps heavy but trying to hide the pain. Marco immediately noticed the dark bruise on his arm and frowned. “Another one?” Marco asked, lowering his voice. There was concern in his eyes, but Joaquin looked away. “I’m fine,” Joaquin mumbled, though they both knew it was a lie. He wasn’t fine. Not this time. “What’s going on with you?” Marco’s expression softened. “Man, today’s the day. The bus leaves in a few hours.” “Oh,” Joaquin said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. You’re really leaving for San Pedro.” “Yeah! Can you believe it?” Marco’s eyes lit up with excitement. “I finally get out of this place. I’m gonna start fresh, you know? A new life, new people, a new world. It’s gonna be incredible.” Joaquin nodded, his heart sinking. He was happy for Marco—he really was—but at the same time, it felt like another door was closing. First his mother, now Marco. Everyone was leaving. Everyone except him. “You’ll do great,” Joaquin said, his voice quieter than before. He rubbed the back of his neck, the reality of it all weighing on him. “I’m happy for you.” Marco must have sensed the shift because he nudged Joaquin with his elbow, grinning. “Hey, don’t look so down. I’ll write. I’ll come back and visit.” But Joaquin knew better. He’d seen it happen before. People left this town and never came back. Marco was chasing something better, and Joaquin didn’t blame him for it. “What about you?” Marco asked, his tone turning serious. “You ever thought about leaving?” The question hit Joaquin harder than he expected. He had thought about it—fantasized about it, really—but it had always felt impossible, like something other people could do. Not him. Joaquin shrugged. “I dunno. Where would I even go?” Marco’s smile faltered a little. “Anywhere’s better than here, right? You deserve more than… this.” His eyes flicked to Joaquin’s bruises, and then to the dusty road, as if the town itself was part of the problem. Joaquin said nothing. His throat tightened, but before he could respond, Marco’s mother called for him from across the market. “I gotta go. I’ll see you before I leave, yeah?” Joaquin gave a quick nod, watching as Marco jogged off. His chest felt tight, like the world was closing in around him. After Marco left, Joaquin lingered by the stalls. Work. He needed something to distract him, and the day ahead would at least give him that. He found himself back at the heart of the market, helping the vendors haul crates of vegetables and sacks of rice from the trucks. It was hard, back-breaking labor, but it paid enough for a simple meal. As he worked, the chatter around the market swirled around him, blending with the smells of sun-baked earth and drying fish. His mind drifted until he heard something that made his heart skip. “Another one?” a vendor muttered as she handed a customer a sack of tomatoes. “I heard he wandered too far into the forest.” Joaquin’s ears pricked up. The forest was a place everyone in town avoided. It stretched far beyond the rice fields at the edge of San Lorenzo, dark and dense, and full of stories. Stories that scared even the grown men who worked the fields. There were always rumors, and tales of disappearances, but the adults called them old superstitions—things to keep children from wandering where they didn’t belong. “Who was it?” another vendor asked, lowering her voice as if they were trading gossip. “I didn’t catch his name,” the first vendor said, shaking her head. “Poor man, though. When they found him, he was barely able to speak. Scared out of his mind, babbling about… I don’t know, shadows and whispers.” “Shadows?” the other vendor scoffed, but there was an edge of unease in her voice. “Probably got lost and scared himself silly.” “They say he was gone for days,” the first vendor added, “and when they brought him back, he looked like he hadn’t eaten the whole time. Just sitting there, shaking. Some folks say he saw the engkantos.” Joaquin’s hands froze on the crate he was carrying. Engkantos. The word felt heavy, almost f*******n. They were spirits, beings that existed just outside the world of the living—tricksters, some said, and others swore they were guardians of the forest. Joaquin had grown up hearing about them, the way they could lure people into their realm, never to return. But those were just stories. Weren’t they? A chill crept down Joaquin’s spine despite the heat of the day. He shook his head, trying to focus back on the task at hand, but the weight of the stories hung over him like a shadow. The forest, the stories, the disappearances—it all seemed closer, more real now. And as the day wore on, the thought stayed with him. The forest was a place where people disappeared. Maybe it was a place where people like him could disappear, too. The sun hung high in the sky by the time Joaquin started walking back. His legs felt heavy, his mind spinning. Marco was leaving, and with him, the last connection Joaquin had to this place. There was nothing left for him here. His home wasn’t a home—it was a prison. A place where his father’s fists and drunken rages filled every corner. As he neared the edge of town, Joaquin’s eyes caught a familiar figure sitting outside a small sari-sari store, a bottle in hand. His father. The man was hunched over on a plastic chair, surrounded by a group of equally drunk men, laughing loudly, their voices harsh against the quiet hum of the afternoon. His father’s face was red, his eyes glazed over as he lifted the bottle to his lips. Joaquin’s heart raced. He knew what would happen if he went home. His father would drink himself into a stupor, and when night came, so would the violence. He had seen it too many times before. He couldn’t go back. Not this time. The decision hit him suddenly, like a wave crashing over him. Run. He didn’t know where he would go, but the thought of staying filled him with dread. He couldn’t live like this anymore. Not with the bruises. Not with the constant fear. With one last glance at his father, Joaquin turned and walked in the opposite direction. This time, he wouldn’t stop. He was running away.