Chapter 87

Toren was growing sick of the underground room.

He felt locked inside the nightmares of his childhood memories.

The accusations, the tortures, the baseless prophecy, the angry father, and the countless paintings that served as an escape getaway portal.

Once, he was sealed inside because of fear and danger.

Now, he was sealed because of hatred and ancient spells.

Toren could not imagine that even in the afterlife, he would wish to elude to and from that place.

During the first few days, it felt like he had returned to the period of great war and colonialism. The dusty air of loathe, the stifled emotions, the stolen artilleries, the colonists soldiers.

They all felt real even without seeing them or hearing them.

Those were the ghosts that haunted the boy's stigmatized brain. How, he questioned, would he holler for the rights and privileges when incarcerated at his own shelter.

That it was not safety given to him, but restrictions and shackles. They latch onto him like scars that the only way to get rid of them was to peel your own skin – peel away your own kin.

It will hurt like hell, he knew. That was why he ran away then.

What was the difference between then and now? When Coen had forced the return of things, what was the difference? Toren was losing his mind.

The first few days of his sanity was maintained through dirty, unused sheets.

He spilled his soul across from the tattered edges until to the epicenter like a vortex of tornado. Using the primary hues that remained as dry and sticky liquids, he melted it onto the canvas sheet and ripped the colors into a masterpiece.

It was not enough.

He had drawn the crimson thread of time, the spectrum colors of floodgates, the maps of afterlife, and the flowers that wither and bloom in a fluctuating manner. They felt more eternal than his patience, he thought.

Despite being so fragile and somewhat ephemeral, they would not drain into the ordinaries of nature.

They were different because the realm solidifies their petals and what holds them.

Toren pondered about everything.

He saw through the things he had never seen before, magnified them into his perceptions, dissected their very nature and philosophy, and discerned their hearts.

Everything was in different leagues.

Everything was in their different kind of mundane, swirling into the illusion of the extraordinary.

On the fourth day, he forced himself into drifting towards a hypnagogic state until he had arrived at the otherworld – his mother's lair.

At the field of roses, Airen was seen drinking the Orion, relishing the magic and the wintry air. He slowly approached her, rustling the leaves and petals to let her know about his presence.

When they had come face to face, Airen smiled at him and he resisted all the temptations to give in with just hearts and emotions.

He decided to come there with a great amount of resolve to figure out the truth.