Realm of Thorns

 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.

The tikbalang stood towering before Joaquin, nearly seven feet tall, its muscled body gleaming in the dim light filtering through the canopy. Its thick, corded arms flexed subtly as it shifted its weight, the creature’s enormous biceps and chiseled torso exuding an almost casual strength. Joaquin’s eyes were drawn to its legs—long, powerful limbs that ended in cloven hooves. They scraped the ground softly, sending shivers up his spine with each subtle movement. The air around him felt dense, heavy with an unnatural stillness, as though the forest itself was holding its breath.

Joaquin swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. His legs felt like lead, but his heart pounded like a drum in his chest. He couldn’t move, pinned under the creature’s gaze—its yellow eyes glowing like embers in the suffocating darkness. It was as if those eyes could see right through him, peeling back every layer of his fear, his guilt, his deepest insecurities.

The tikbalang’s lips curled back slightly, revealing large, unnervingly human teeth. “Lost, are you?” it said, its voice a low rumble that vibrated through the air and into Joaquin’s bones. The creature’s words were laced with amusement, but there was an edge to it, like the gleam of a knife.

Joaquin’s mouth went dry, and he stammered, searching for words that refused to come. The tikbalang tilted its head, watching him intently, eyes widening with a kind of playful curiosity. “Hmm, no words for me?” it asked, stepping closer, its hooves crunching against the forest floor. “That’s alright. I prefer when they run.”

Something in the way it said “run” sent a jolt of terror through Joaquin’s body. Without thinking, he turned and sprinted, his legs moving as though possessed by the primal instinct to survive. Behind him, the tikbalang’s laughter boomed through the trees—a deep, rich sound that made the forest feel alive with the creature’s amusement. “It’s a game of tag, then, isn’t it?” it called after him, the sound of its hooves following close behind.

Joaquin ran faster than he had ever run in his life, dodging low-hanging branches and leaping over fallen logs. The sharp twigs and leaves scratched at his skin, but he barely noticed, the adrenaline surging through him like wildfire. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and the ground beneath his feet blurred as he pushed himself harder. In the chaos, he glimpsed a large rock with a strange blue flower glowing faintly atop it. For a moment, it struck him as odd—something so beautiful in the midst of his terror—but he had no time to think about it. He darted left, hoping to lose the tikbalang in the maze of trees.

The sound of hooves thundered through the forest, pounding in sync with Joaquin’s frantic heartbeat. His legs ached with each desperate stride, muscles screaming for relief as he pushed himself to the brink. The branches tore at his skin, and the uneven ground threatened to trip him with every step, but he didn’t dare slow down. The tikbalang’s heavy footsteps were a constant reminder of the danger lurking just behind him. His mind was consumed with one thought:Run.

His lungs burned, gasping for air that felt too thick, too heavy in the dense atmosphere of the forest. Sweat trickled down his face, stinging his eyes, but he blinked it away, refusing to stop. The eerie glow of the trees flashed by in a blur, their gnarled roots rising from the ground like claws reaching for his feet, as if even the forest wanted to trap him. His legs screamed in agony, every breath he drew felt like fire in his chest, but he kept going, fueled by sheer terror.

Then, abruptly, the sound of hooves behind him vanished. It was as if the earth itself had swallowed the noise, plunging the forest into an unnatural silence. Joaquin’s heart still pounded in his ears, but now, it was the only sound. His feet slowed against his will, his legs trembling with exhaustion, and he risked a glance over his shoulder.

Nothing.

The creature was gone. For the first time since the chase began, Joaquin allowed himself to stop. He doubled over, hands on his knees, his breath coming in heavy, ragged bursts. His lungs felt raw, like he’d been breathing in smoke, but there was no more running. Relief, like a cool wave washing over him, flooded his body, and for a brief moment, the grip of fear loosened. He was alive. He had escaped.

But the quiet was too thick, too absolute. It pressed down on him, filling the space where the sound of his own gasping breaths echoed. Joaquin straightened, wiping the sweat from his brow with a trembling hand, and squinted into the dense shadows of the forest. The wind whispered through the trees, brushing past him in soft gusts, stirring the leaves, but there was nothing else. No birds, no insects—just that eerie stillness. His senses, still on high alert, tingled with unease.

Did I lose it?he wondered, his mind racing as he strained to listen for any sign of the creature. His chest heaved as he gulped down air, every breath still heavy, still painful. But there was no sound. No movement. Maybe, just maybe, he had outrun it.

His heart rate slowed slightly, and for a split second, hope flickered in his chest.

Then, the softest rustle of leaves reached his ears, barely audible over his panting. Joaquin froze, his body going cold as dread trickled down his spine.

“Tired already?” The voice, smooth and mocking, sliced through the silence like a blade. “That didn’t last long.”

Joaquin’s blood turned to ice. He spun around, heart hammering once more, and there it was—the tikbalang, standing only a few feet away, its golden eyes gleaming with twisted delight. It was as though the creature had never even exerted itself, standing there with casual ease, its massive form illuminated by slivers of moonlight filtering through the trees.

The grin on its horse-like face widened, the wicked amusement in its eyes unmistakable. Joaquin’s mouth went dry. He staggered back, his legs shaking violently with a mix of fear and exhaustion, unable to comprehend how it had caught him so easily. The relief he had felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by sheer panic.

“You can’t outrun me,” the tikbalang said, stepping closer, the ground barely trembling beneath its hooves. Its voice, though smooth, was edged with malice.

Joaquin’s body wanted to move, but his legs were weak, trembling as though they could no longer support him. He felt trapped, as if the very forest was in league with the creature, and his mind screamed at him to run—but where could he go when the tikbalang seemed to be everywhere?

It leaned forward slightly, the smirk on its face deepening, as if relishing in Joaquin’s hopelessness. “Go on,” it said softly, the amusement in its tone chilling. “Try again.”

“H-H-How...?” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper.

“You can’t run from me,” the tikbalang said, stepping closer. Its tone was teasing, almost affectionate in its cruelty. “No one ever does.”

With a strangled cry, Joaquin turned and ran again, his mind screaming at him to escape, even though deep down he knew it was useless. He sprinted through the forest, his heart pounding in his chest. But as he rounded a corner, his feet skidded to a halt. There, in front of him, was the same rock with the blue glowing flower, the one he had passed moments ago.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. “No, no, no...”

He spun around, trying a different path. He ran faster, harder, the branches tearing at his clothes, the cold night air biting at his skin. But the forest twisted and turned in ways that didn’t make sense. Every path led him back to the same spot—back to the rock with the glowing flower. It was like the forest itself was working against him, mocking his every attempt to escape.

A movement in the shadows caught his eye. The tikbalang stood there, leaning casually against a tree, its arms crossed over its broad chest. It tilted its head, smiling at him like a cat watching a mouse. “I told you,” it said, its voice low and amused. “You can’t run from me.”

Joaquin’s breath caught in his throat. His mind spun in a desperate search for an escape, but the tikbalang’s laughter echoed in his ears, filling the forest with its sinister joy. The creature was toying with him, like a predator enjoying the thrill of the chase.

He ran again. He had no other choice. The tikbalang’s mocking voice trailed after him. “See you later, little one.”

Joaquin’s legs burned with exhaustion, his heart felt like it was about to burst, but still, he pushed himself forward. He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Yet no matter how far he ran, how many twists and turns he took, the forest betrayed him, leading him in circles. He passed the glowing flower again, its blue light shimmering in the darkness like a cruel beacon.

Joaquin stumbled to a stop, gasping for air, tears of frustration welling in his eyes. “No! This can’t be happening!” he shouted into the night, his voice cracking with desperation.

He took off again, darting down another unfamiliar path, only to find himself face-to-face with the tikbalang once more. This time, the creature didn’t move. It simply stood there, its eyes gleaming in the darkness, its laughter now softer, almost pitying.

“Tired yet?” it asked, its voice smooth and menacing.

Joaquin was beyond words now, beyond rational thought. He bolted again, his feet carrying him toward a distant cave. His legs felt like they were on fire, his lungs screamed for air, but he plunged forward into the cave’s darkness, hoping it would offer him salvation.

Inside the cave, the air was cool and damp, the scent of moss and wet stone thick in his nostrils. Joaquin navigated through narrow passageways, his footsteps echoing in the silence. But when he finally emerged into a small clearing, his heart sank into the pit of his stomach.

There it was—the same rock with the glowing blue flower.

Joaquin fell to his knees, staring at the flower in disbelief. The tikbalang’s voice, a whisper in the wind, reached his ears.

“You can’t escape what’s already yours.”