Chapter 4.2: (The nightmarish past)
The air fell silent after we exchanged our words.
The tension between us was thick, almost suffocating. And then, finally, I spoke.
"Do you want to get out of here" I ask trying to change the topic to lessen the tension between us.
"I will answer that, but Let me first ask you, would you like to go back to the world you were in before? Sorry but going back is impossible" he asked and said, going with the sudden change of topic.
Without a hint of emotion, I replied, "No, it doesn't matter. Even if I'm stuck in this world, I just don't want to go back to my old life, it was too hard. I don't have anywhere to go back to, no one waiting for me. Even if there's a friend, it's all lie. My old life was tough, a never-ending cycle. I'm exhausted, just want to rest in bed without any worries. I'm tired of working, I'm tired of thinking about money. I don't want to return to the empty place that i once called home. I'm just too tired."
In a quiet and gentle tone, he asked, "So, what's your next decision/move if you don't want to return and have no plans or goals in mind?"
"I don't have any plans," I responded,
In his thought "noticing how tired this guy looked. His eyes had dark circles from lack of sleep, and his body seemed malnourished. If I let him go, he might not survive for long,
and if I stay in my den longer i could attract unwanted attention from the evil gods and demons. My only chance of escape in this chains was to train him to be my vessel, but he had to agree first. His weak body needed strengthening, and I needed to learn his story to bring out his emotions. It was the only way to make this plan work and find a way out of this mess."
"You, Share your story" he requested.
"Nahh... that was a trouble some" I said as he stared at me. "I'll give it a shot, I guess..." I added.
Then I started.
I remember the park.
I remember the wind.
I remember them.
I remember... us.
That small, sun-drenched park, tucked between rusted swings and tired old trees that leaned slightly as if half-asleep. The grass was patchy in places, the earth hard and dry where too many feet had trampled it, but to me it felt endless—my whole world.
"Papa! Push me higher!" I shouted, my voice shrill with excitement as the swing creaked beneath me. My fingers clamped around the cool metal chains until my palms burned, legs kicking furiously at the air. The wind rushed past my ears, carrying the smell of cut grass and dust.
Behind me, Papa's broad frame shifted with every push. His heavy hands pressed firmly against my back, rough from work but steady, never letting me slip. His laughter rumbled out, low and warm. "Higher? You'll end up flipping over the bar at this rate," he said, still pushing.
"You won't let me fall!" I shot back, twisting my head just enough to catch a glimpse of his grin.
"Of course not," he said, quieter this time, his voice carried away by the breeze.
After the swings, he always chased me.
I jumped off, landing clumsily on the hard dirt, and bolted across the grass. My feet slapped against the ground, my breath coming in short, excited bursts. Papa came after me, his long strides shaking the ground, arms bent and swinging wide as he stomped deliberately to make himself sound heavier. "Grrr! You can't escape me!" he roared, voice echoing through the empty park.
"You're too slow!" I squealed, weaving between the leaning trees. My chest ached, but I didn't stop.
Of course, he caught me. He always did. His arms swept me up in one motion, lifting me clean off the ground. I yelped as the world tilted, then spun wildly when he twirled me around. My legs kicked uselessly, the wind tearing at my hair.
"You're light," he muttered, his breath brushing against my ear as he steadied me on his shoulder. His eyes, squinting against the sunlight, followed a bird cutting across the sky. "One day you'll run too fast for me."
"I'll wait for you," I answered between giggles, my small hands gripping his shirt collar.
Then came the swords.
We picked up sticks—one thick and uneven, one slim and straight. Papa twirled his like a staff, crouching down in a half-serious stance, shoulders hunched and eyes narrowed. The corner of his mouth twitched, trying not to break into a smile.
I lowered mine the way I'd seen samurais on TV, but it was too long for me, so the tip dragged through the dirt, leaving a faint line behind me.
I lunged. The stick jabbed into his stomach.
"Oof!" He stumbled back, hands pressed dramatically over his belly. "Not the gut... I'm finished!" His body collapsed into the grass with a heavy thud, arms splayed out as if struck dead.
"I win!" I shouted, hopping onto his chest. My knees pressed into his shirt, grass stains smearing on both of us.
He looked up at me with one eye squinting shut, his breath catching between laughter. "Yeah," he said, voice soft, "you always do."
And then Mama.
I saw her before I heard her—walking across the field with the sun behind her, her figure wrapped in a golden glow. A towel hung over her shoulder, swaying with each step, her skirt brushing against her knees.
"You two look ridiculous," she said as she crouched down beside us, shaking her head but smiling anyway.
Her arms circled me, pulling me from Papa's chest onto her lap. She smelled of laundry soap and the faint sweetness of the lotion she always used. Her fingers pressed lightly against my forehead as she wiped away sweat with the towel. "Look at you," she whispered, voice low and warm. "Grass in your hair, sweat all over you."
"Did you see me, Mama? I beat Papa!" I said quickly, tugging on her sleeve.
Her hand slid through my tangled hair, smoothing it back. She looked at me with eyes that always seemed to smile, no matter how tired she was. "I saw," she murmured. "You were fast. Faster than the wind."
She opened the lunchbox she carried, pulling out rice balls, boiled eggs, and strawberries on toothpicks. She always saved the brightest one for last. Holding it between her fingers, she brought it close to my lips. "Eat. You'll need your strength."
I bit into it, the sweetness filling my mouth as Mama's hand lingered against my cheek.
Every detail of those days lingers: the grass prickling my bare legs, Papa's rough palms steadying me on the swing, Mama's shadow falling over me like a shield. Their laughter. Their warmth. Their voices.
They were always there.
Every school event—they were there.
I remember standing on stage, the lights too bright in my eyes, the sound of my own voice trembling as I recited my lines. My hands shook so badly that I clenched them behind my back to hide it. The crowd was a blur—faces blending into a wall of shadows and murmurs.
But I always found them.
Papa's huge arm was raised high above the others, waving like he wanted to tear the air in half, his grin so wide it almost looked foolish. Mama was beside him, clapping until her palms turned red, her eyes fixed only on me. Even when tears blurred my vision, I could see them clearly, like they were glowing in a crowd of gray.
And after, when I stumbled off the stage, cheeks burning with embarrassment, they were already waiting by the exit.
"You were great," Mama whispered as she crouched down, brushing a stray strand of hair from my forehead.
"You were loud," Papa added, ruffling my hair with his rough hand. "I could hear you even from the back. That's my boy."
I wanted to argue that I messed up, that I forgot my lines for a second, but Papa's grin didn't leave his face, and Mama's hand stayed steady on my shoulder. Somehow, that made the mistakes feel smaller.
On birthdays, the house always smelled of food long before I woke. The table would be covered—noodles, soup, roasted chicken, little cakes Mama baked herself even when she was tired. She'd wear an apron dusted with flour, and Papa would sneak bites when she wasn't looking, laughing when she slapped his hand away.
By the time the candles were lit, the whole room glowed orange from the light.
Papa's hand, broad and heavy, would press against my head, ruffling my hair until it stuck out in every direction. "Stop growing so fast," he'd mutter, half-joking, half-serious. "Didn't I just buy you shoes last month?"
Mama would lean in, her lips brushing my cheek. "Don't listen to him," she whispered, her voice softer than the candle flame. "Grow as much as you want. You'll always welcome here." Her arms folded around me, strong but gentle, as if her embrace could still hold me no matter how tall I became.
And I believed her.
At night, when my eyes grew heavy over unfinished homework, I'd wake to find myself already in bed. I never felt them lift me, never heard their footsteps, but somehow I always ended up beneath my blanket, the familiar weight of it tucked tight around me. The pillow smelled faintly of Mama's shampoo, like she'd leaned close just before laying me down.
Sometimes I'd crack my eyes open just enough to see them. Papa stooping low, his back stiff from a long day of work, adjusting the edge of the blanket with hands too rough for such careful movements. Mama brushing my hair back, her lips pressing softly against my temple before she turned off the light.
Even when I grew heavier. Even when their bodies ached. They never stopped tucking me in.
And when storms came—those long nights when thunder split the sky open and rain hammered against the thin windows—I would curl beneath the covers, trembling. The shadows seemed to grow teeth. The wind rattled the glass like something was trying to get in.
But they always came.
Papa's footsteps were heavy in the hallway, quick and certain. The door would creak open, and in a moment his arms wrapped around me, his chest broad and solid as stone. His voice rumbled against my ear: "It's just the sky being loud. Nothing else. It can't touch you."
Mama would sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. Her hand moved slowly through my hair, over and over, steady as the rain outside. Her voice was quieter than the thunder, but I clung to it. "It's just a dream," she murmured. "The monsters, the shadows—they're not real."
And I believed them. Because they were always there.
Always.
That was the times when the word "home" meant laughter echoing through the rooms, the kitchen always smelled like warm soup and cinnamon, and Mom would hum old songs while Dad worked at his desk with big blueprints and coffee cups stacked beside him. My family used to be... happy. Genuinely happy.
But, as always, happiness never lasts forever. Sooner or later, it ends.