Realm of Thorns

The Heart of Darkness

The sun sank low, casting long shadows across the dirt road as Joaquin trudged home, each step heavy with a mixture of loss and determination. Just hours earlier, he had said goodbye to Marco, feeling a flicker of hope ignite within him. But as the reality of his life settled back in, cold and unyielding, he was left with the haunting reminder of his mother’s absence and the fractured bond with his father. He had to change. He had to make things better for himself and, somehow, for his father too.

As he pushed open the creaking door of their small wooden house, the familiar scent of dust and decay wrapped around him like a shroud. Dim light filtered through grimy windows, illuminating the disarray of the living space. Shadows clung to the corners, where cobwebs danced in the faint breeze, reminiscent of the tangled threads of their fractured lives. The kitchen was bare, the cupboard doors creaking in protest as he opened them, revealing a few mismatched pots and the bottom of an empty rice sack.

Joaquin rummaged through the cabinet, his hands moving mechanically as he gathered what little ingredients he could find. Dinner would be simple—just a bit of rice and the last of the canned goods—but it would be something. He measured the rice, grains slipping through his fingers like sand, while the silence of the house pressed in around him, intensifying the swirling thoughts in his mind.

The stove flickered to life, and he watched the flame dance, warmth radiating against the coolness of the evening air. He thought of Marco’s words, the promise of a new life, and felt the ember of hope flicker deep within him. Yet that hope was overshadowed by the guilt of the past, a weight he could no longer carry.

As the rice boiled, Joaquin’s gaze fell on the wall, where his mother’s faded photo hung, capturing a moment from a time that felt like a distant memory. She smiled back at him, her warmth radiating even through the years of pain and hardship. The memory of her gentle laughter clashed harshly with the reality of his home now, where silence reigned, broken only by the rhythmic sound of his father’s snoring from the sofa.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows that crept into the corners of the room. Joaquin served the rice, steam rising like a fragile promise into the air. He opened the last can of sardines, placing everything on the table with trembling hands. His heart raced with anxiety; tonight, he would confront his father. He needed to speak to him, to find a way to bridge the chasm that had grown between them—a chasm deepened by grief and resentment.

Just then, the familiar creaking of the door echoed through the house, and Joaquin's stomach tightened. His father stumbled in, the heavy scent of alcohol trailing behind him like a storm cloud. The man who walked through the door was a shadow of the father he once knew—his face lined with wrinkles of despair, his eyes clouded with drink and rage.

“Dinner,” Joaquin said, forcing the word out, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Where have you been?” his father slurred, squinting at him as if he were a ghost. “Out wasting time, I bet. This isn’t the time to be loitering around.”

Joaquin’s resolve flickered, but he took a deep breath, steadying himself. “I wanted to talk,” he replied, his heart thudding loudly in his chest.

“Talk?” His father scoffed, sinking heavily into a chair and reaching for the bowl of rice with unsteady hands. “What’s there to talk about? I’m not in the mood for your whining.”

“It’s important,” Joaquin pressed, desperation creeping into his voice. “I want to change. I want us to change.”

His father paused, the rice halfway to his lips, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. “Change? You think I can just change everything? You’re the reason she’s gone, you know. If you weren’t so weak—”

“Stop!” Joaquin shouted, the word bursting forth from him like a dam breaking, surprising even himself. Anger surged from the pit of his stomach, a fiery wave that washed over the despair he had been drowning in. “You don’t get to blame me anymore!”

His father’s expression darkened, a storm brewing behind his bloodshot eyes. He slammed the bowl down, the sound reverberating through the small house like a gunshot, sending rice spilling across the table in a chaotic cascade. The grains rolled and scattered, reflecting the disarray of their lives. “You caught the virus first! You were the reason she got sick! She spent sleepless nights caring for you, you useless brat! She got sick but still continued caring for you!”

Joaquin felt each accusation strike him like a physical blow, his heart racing in his chest. “She didn’t have to take care of me! She did that because she loved me!” Tears brimmed in his eyes, blurring his vision as the memories of his mother’s gentle touch and soothing words crashed over him like waves. “Do you think I wanted to be sick? I was a child!”

His father advanced, fists clenched, the scent of alcohol mixing with the stale air of the room, making Joaquin’s stomach churn. “You got the virus because you did not listen! We told you not to go out, but you still did. You escaped when we were sleeping! You came back infected! It was your fault!”

The words hit Joaquin like a dagger, slicing through the thin veil of denial he had wrapped around himself. Each accusation twisted deeper into him, and he staggered back, the guilt rising in his throat like bile. Was he really to blame for his mother’s death? The weight of his father’s anger crashed over him, suffocating and overwhelming. She had sacrificed so much for them both, and only now did he understand the burden she had borne, the sleepless nights spent worrying about him while she fought her own battles.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Joaquin screamed, his voice cracking like brittle glass. “I was a child! I didn’t want her to die!”

Each word reverberated through him, echoing in the hollow chambers of his heart, where grief and anger intertwined. The heavy silence that followed felt like a chasm opening up beneath him, threatening to swallow him whole. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” he whispered, the confession barely audible, trembling on the edge of despair.

The kitchen felt smaller, the walls closing in around him, thick with the tension that crackled like electricity in the air. The shadows of the room seemed to deepen, wrapping around him like a cloak of despair. Joaquin’s breaths came in sharp gasps, each one punctuated by the overwhelming sorrow that threatened to consume him.

His father’s expression flickered for a moment, the rage momentarily overshadowed by something that resembled regret. But it was fleeting, quickly replaced by the familiar mask of anger and bitterness. “You should have listened!” he spat, voice rising again, the timber breaking through Joaquin's fragile resolve.

With a sudden surge of emotion, Joaquin turned and ran from the house, the door slamming behind him like a thunderclap that drowned out his father’s angry shouts, now fading into the night. He sprinted down the dirt road, each footfall striking the ground with a frantic rhythm, the cool evening air biting at his skin like sharp shards of ice.

“Joaquin! Stop!” his father’s voice called after him, slurred and desperate, echoing with a mixture of anger and fear. But Joaquin couldn’t stop. He couldn’t listen to him anymore. Not tonight.

The darkness enveloped him, a thick shroud that mirrored the turmoil raging within him. Shadows danced in the corners of his vision, twisting and turning like the chaotic thoughts that filled his mind. He ran until his legs burned and his breath came in ragged gasps, the cool air feeling sharp and unyielding in his lungs. The weight of his father’s accusations pressed down on him, suffocating, yet he pushed forward, desperate to escape the stifling atmosphere of the home he had once called a sanctuary.

The familiar path blurred into a haze of movement, the outlines of trees and shrubs melting together as he sprinted. Before he realized it, he had ventured deep into the forest, the trees looming overhead like silent sentinels, their gnarled branches stretching toward the sky. The air grew colder, thick with the rich, earthy scent of damp soil and decaying leaves, a stark contrast to the sterile smell of his home.

Joaquin paused, panting heavily, confusion washing over him like a wave. He looked around, his heart pounding in his chest, fear creeping in as he realized he had strayed far from the town. “Where am I?” he murmured, his voice trembling as it echoed softly through the trees. The towering trunks surrounded him, their bark rough and ancient, as if they held the weight of countless secrets. The forest felt alive, whispering softly in a language he couldn’t understand, the rustling leaves above creating a haunting melody that seemed to mock his isolation.

Suddenly, a rustling in the bushes nearby snapped him from his thoughts, and his body tensed, adrenaline surging through him like a jolt of electricity. He took a cautious step back, the cool dampness of the forest floor sinking beneath his feet, grounding him in the moment. The sound grew louder, a rhythmic crunching that sent shivers racing down his spine.

Before he could think, a figure emerged from the underbrush, and Joaquin froze, staring in disbelief. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. The creature stood tall, its form a strange blend of human and beast. Its body resembled that of a man, powerful and poised, but its head was that of a horse, its eyes glinting with an otherworldly intelligence. A flowing mane cascaded down its neck, merging seamlessly with the shadows that surrounded it, glistening with an ethereal light that pulsed with the heartbeat of the forest.

In front of him stood a tikbalang.