Chapter 2 — The Starting Point (1)

Every great journey begins with a single step, but it's the direction of that step and the purpose behind it that ultimately determines the destination.

••••

"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

With a sudden jolt, I sat up straight, my scream piercing the silence. My heart throbbed violently, sending waves of pain through my chest, and it felt as though it was pulsating close to my ear.

Despite my sweat-drenched clothes, my body was gripped by an icy chill that had nothing to do with the temperature outside.

I slapped a hand over my chest, grasping at my shirt as if to steady my racing heart. My breaths were ragged, coming in short gasps that threatened to suffocate me. The sickening feeling rising in my gut only added to the disorienting experience.

What was that dream all about? And what about that final vision? It wasn't exactly the kind of dream that set a positive tone for the day.

"Leon?" I heard a voice beside me and turned my head to find my mother's gaze fixed on me. As soon as our eyes met, hers filled with tears. "L-Leon!" she exclaimed, enveloping me in a tight embrace that instantly warmed my frigid body, her warmth spreading through me.

"Thank goodness. Thank goodness," she murmured repeatedly, her tears falling freely as she clung to me. Nuzzling her nose against my neck, she tightened her embrace even further, as if she had no intention of ever letting me go.

"...Mother." But I didn't return the hug. Memories of me screaming at her came flooding back to me.

Suddenly, footsteps sounded from the stairs, and my father appeared. "Leon!" Spotting me, he too pulled me into a tight embrace. I was still reeling from the overwhelming emotions, but I allowed myself to simply take it all in.

"Are you alright? Do you...remember us?" My father's voice held a note of nervousness, as if he feared the worst. Did he think I had lost my memories or something?

"I do," I replied, unsure of what else to say.

"I see. I'm glad," he said, his voice heavy with relief. Still feeling confused and disoriented, I simply sat there, letting them hold me close, but I couldn't bring myself to hug them back.

"Uhm...Leon, are you absolutely sure you're okay?" My mother's concerned voice broke through the hug.

"Well...I think so?"

"You were rolling and tossing in your sleep. Did you have a nightmare, perhaps?"

"...Yes, I did."

"Would you like me to sing you a lullaby to help you sleep better?"

I didn't think a lullaby would ease my troubled mind after that nightmare, so I politely declined. "No, it's alright. I'm feeling better now," I said, although I knew my voice sounded a bit off. They didn't seem entirely convinced, so I decided to shift the topic. "By the way, do you have any idea what might have happened to me?"

My question seemed to catch both of them off guard, and their eyes widened in surprise. They exchanged a look that seemed to convey some unspoken message, then turned their attention back to me.

"There's nothing to worry about. You just had a really bad fever, that's all," my father said, but I could tell he was lying. I didn't call him out on it, though. Maybe they thought it was better for me not to know the truth. Unfortunately, I already knew.

I had almost died.

***

It had been three days since that nightmare, and nothing significant had happened since then. However, there was a major change in my surroundings that I couldn't ignore.

For the past two years, my parents had avoided entering my room. Why? Because every time they did, I would scream at them.

But now, things were different. My parents would come into my room with worried expressions, and I couldn't bring myself to scream at them anymore. Even though they never explicitly told me, I knew that I had almost died from that fever. And knowing what had happened made it difficult for me to yell at them when they came to me with concern.

Previously, my parents would leave my meals outside my door and retreat downstairs, and I would retrieve the food once they were gone. But now, my mother brought the food directly to me and stood by as I ate.

My mother watched me eat the food she had cooked for me and asked, "Is it to your taste?"

This wasn't the first time she had asked, and I was sure it wouldn't be the last.

"It's good. Thank you, Mother," I replied in a monotone voice, feeling like I had said the same thing countless times today.

Being in the same room as my mother felt awkward. After all, I had treated her so badly in the past, so it was normal for me to feel this way. I didn't know how to talk to her or even start a conversation. However, one thing I did notice was that despite not seeing my mother's face for two years and only hearing her voice through the door, she hadn't changed much. Her appearance was still the same.

As I struggled to chew the food, feeling awkward in my mother's presence, she asked yet again, "Is it really to your liking?"

"I already told you, Mother. It's really good. Please don't keep asking the same thing over and over again. It's making it hard for me to eat with all the repetitive questioning," I said, my tone a bit irritated. I wanted to convey to her that her constant questioning was making it difficult for me to enjoy the meal.

"I apologize, Leon. I'm just concerned about your well-being," my mother said, looking at me with a worried expression.

"I understand how you feel, but there's no need for you to stay here and watch over me. It's been three days since I had that fever, after all," I said.

"I know...but I can't help it. It's the first time in two years that I finally got to talk and see you like this," my mother said, her voice tinged with a hint of sadness.

I went silent, feeling a pang of guilt in my chest. It was true that I had isolated myself from my family for two years, shutting myself off from the world and not coming out of my room. During that time, I had no conversations with my parents, and the only person I talked to was my younger sister, who persistently tried to enter my room despite my protests.

Hmm. Perhaps her persistence in entering my room was a blessing in disguise. Without her, I might not have been discovered when I was struggling with a severe fever. I should be grateful for her persistence.

As I silently expressed gratitude towards my sister, my mother spoke again, "That's why I keep asking, even though it's repetitive, because at least we're talking. I'm glad to have talked to you again."

As she spoke those words, a tear welled up in her eye. I felt a lump form in my throat and almost choked on my food. I realized now how much pain I must have caused my parents, especially my mother. To have a child who refuses to speak or interact with them must have been a source of great worry and anguish. Despite everything, my mother still loved and cared for me, and longed to be close to me once again.

However, even with this realization, I couldn't bring myself to open up to her.

Finishing my meal in silence, I handed the plate to my mother without looking up at her. She tried to continue the conversation, but I remained quiet. Understanding my reluctance to talk, my mother left the room silently, closing the door behind her.

I let out a sigh as I looked at the now-closed door.

As I surveyed the familiar surroundings of my small room, I couldn't help but feel a sense of despair. The events of that fateful day, when I was disowned, had left me feeling like I was sinking deeper into a pit of despair. No, perhaps, I had already hit rock bottom and didn't know how to climb out.

After taking a deep breath, I got up from my bed and made my way to the bathroom. In there, I saw a mirror that I hadn't looked at in two years. I stepped closer to the mirror, until my reflection came into clear view.

As I stood in front of the mirror, I couldn't help but notice the changes that had occurred in my appearance. My hair had grown long, reaching down to my shoulders, and my bangs were covering one of my eyes. The dark circles under my crimson-colored eyes were more pronounced than ever, and my once-pale skin seemed even paler than before.

"I look terrible," I chuckled, feeling self-deprecating.

Seeing myself in the mirror for the first time in two years, I couldn't help but realize how pathetic and hopeless I had become.

With the possibility of a looming "gods' game" in the horizon, unknown to all of us, could I really afford to stay here and just let things unfold? I was at a loss about what to do.

Once again, a sense of hopelessness engulfed me, and I let out a deep sigh that echoed through the small bathroom.