The oceanfront hotel. He had booked it. Not the ninth floor. But high enough. Ninth. With the view of the unending, uncaring ocean. The trip a haze. Bus. Train. Taxi. Each a step further away from the familiar, from the suffocating monotony, from the shadow of his previous life. He checked in, the attendant a tired-eyed woman with a forced smile, her smile fake. Like mine. Always forced. Until today. Not needed. To force.
His room was small. Clean. Sterile. One bed. A small balcony. And the ocean. Endless, glinting blue under the harsh summer sun. It called to him. Not a siren's wail of desperation, not yet, but a great, silent call to nothingness. Endless. Like my void. Swallow me. Whole. No leaving behind. Anything.
He put down his minuscule bag. One outfit. The crumpled note of Lily. The book with the poppy. His phone, flat battery, an indication of his isolation. He had been on the balcony. The air was salty and damp against his skin. Down below, tiny figures dotted the sand, vivid splashes of color. Children screaming with joy, their laughter on the air, a sour counterpoint to the emptiness within him. They are unaware. The hollowness. The whispers. They play. Blind. Happy. Lucky.
He stood there for hours. Just watching. The waves, an endless beat. The sky, an unbroken blue. The horizon, a sharp line dividing two nothingnesses. His mind, a confused kaleidoscope of fragments.
Reiner. Zoe. Lux. Crimson. They appeared, unwanted, from the depths of his mind. Not the console of the game. Not the pixels. But this. In the ocean's depth, the boundless blue. They were at the shore. Not the sand of a distant world, but this sand. The burning sun above, reflecting the warmth on his skin.
They were fighting. Against Odell. A huge, dark shape that stretched itself across the water, its form indistinct, but threatening. Reiner, sword a whirlwind, walked with mad beauty, but his strikes hit nothing. Air. Zoe, her movements quick, tried to focus her power, but her hands released weak sparks that fizzled into nothing. Lux, the dark Arlechino, his power in decline, was fighting some unseen force, his strokes heavy, dramatic, but completely pointless. Crimson, red-hatted Adel, usually so wise, sprinted around in circles, his laughter now a maddened cackle, his powers stifled, muffled.
They're here. They're fighting. For me. Or… for themselves. But… they can't. They are… muffled.
He saw the people on the beach. They looked. Not with wonder or fear. With amusement. A man pointed, laughed, "Look at that odd group. Some sort of performance art." A child laughed, "They're playing pretend, Mama!"
Pretend. Yes. Always. Pretend. My war. Their war. Just… pretend. To the outside. To the humans. To the ones who can't see. The war. The true war. Inside. Outside.
Reiner shouted, a thunderous scream of fury, but no sound was heard. Only a gentle, barely detectable breath of air from his lips. Zoe waved her arms, trying to conjure a shield, a barrier, but her hands merely brushed the air, empty. Lux tried to call on the very sand, to rise and blanket Odell, but the grains merely blew on the wind, indifferent. Crimson, his face contorted in a screamed denial, vehemently tried to ignite a spell, but his hand flashed bright for a moment, then went dark.
They're muted. By human beings. By the indifference of the world. My world. Like me. All my screams. My anguish. My desperation. Just… air. To them. To everyone. To Lily.
Odell, the shadowy figure, seemed to expand, to fill with its own presence space, it was an ugly thing, living off their powerlessness, off the utter indifference of the world outside themselves. It wasn't a battle of flesh and bone now. It was a battle for attention. For existence. And they were losing. Badly. Because no one saw. No one heard. No one cared.
Xing felt a biting, freezing rush of sympathy. They are me. My struggle. My wails. Unheard. My resilience. Lost. Dampened. By the everyday noise. The normal. The lack. Of understanding.
He recalled his childhood. The hours of isolation. Constructing these worlds. These characters. To fight the shadows that no one could see. The whispers of "not enough." The constant dread of "failure." He'd made them powerful in his mind, given them voices, abilities, quests of legend. But here, on this beach, in this "reality," they were crippled. Limped to a sideshow. A farce.
The big battle. Scaled down. Performance art. My life. Scaled down. A pitiful. Performance. To myself. To the few. Who care. To observe.
He watched Reiner sink to his knees, his sword clashing on sand. Zoe fell, tears running down her face, that vanished in the heat, unseen. Lux stood rigid, a defeat statue. Crimson fell, red hat rolling away, a rejected toy. Odell thrummed, triumphant, wordless thrum, that enfolded them slowly, inexorably.
They are dying. My creations. My strength. My haven. Dying. For me. Unable. To give them. Voice. Unable. To give them. Strength. In this. Shared. Vicious. World.
A gust of wind burst out from the balcony and rattled the railing. Xing shivered, flinching away from the delusion. The beach below was still filled with people. The children still cried out. The sun still beat. The bodies of his characters vanished, scattered into the apparent heat.
It was… a warning. A last. Message. From me. To me. Even the fantasy. Fails. Here. When. There is no hope. No power. No… voice.
He turned away from the balcony, the warmth of the sun a palpable weight on his shoulders. The room air conditioner grumbled, a low, constant drone. He lay down on the bed, staring at the white ceiling. The thoughts coalesced in broken outbursts, each one a nail hammered into his already shattered mind.
The worst book. Is me. My life. A bad story. A poor character. No ending. Just… fade. To black. And gray. Always gray.
He pictured the hotel staff. The janitor, the chef, the doorman. They were like the extras in his game. Faceless. Functional. Not him. They live. They do. They provide. I… only consume. Air. Food. Space.
The ocean. It was so enormous. So apathetic. So… conclusive. The perfect place to disappear. A calm, unglamorous demise. No dramatic rooftop plunge. Just… a walk. Into the sea. Until nothing.
No. More. Agony. No. More. Horror. No. More. Failure. Just… peace. Or… nothing. Yes. Nothing. Is better. Than this.
He closed his eyes again. The wave of the waves, coming in, endless, irresistible. He could feel the cold water, the gentle pull. It offered oblivion. He pictured himself, a tiny speck, merging into the hugeness. Blurring. Blurring. all.
The gift. Of God. To die. Yes. A gift. And I. Will take. It. Soon. Very. Soon.
He sat pondering the letter he had started. The worst book. He hadn't seen it for days. Weeks. Since the cinema. Since the unsuccessful job applications. Since losing weight. Since Lily. All. connected. A spiral. Downwards. Into. this.
He pulled out the crumpled page. Ironed it on the bed. "Dear Lily," it said. He scowled at it. The words jeered at him now. The rage, the revolt he had written it with was gone, and in its stead a dull, hurt resignation. What's the point? Nobody cares a damns. Nobody reads. Worst book. Will be. Unread. Unwept. Like me.
The room was empty, only the hum of the air conditioning shattering the silence. He was totally, absolutely alone. A heavy, painful loneliness that soaked into his very bones. This vacation. This trip. Only a different type of captivity. A golden cage with a view to the end.
The sea. It is a whisper. My name. Xing. Come. Be one. With the nothing.
He was not aware of how long he remained there. Hours. Perhaps a whole day. The sun altered, casting hues of orange, then purple, then deep, dark black over the room. The air conditioner buzzed louder now, its growl in his ear. He had not eaten. Had not taken anything to drink. His body was light. Unattached.
Near. There. The point. The final. Step.
His phone vibrated. He didn't pick it up. Vibrated again. And again. Insistent. Like the waves. He picked it up, his hand moving like another's. His mother. Calling. Again. And again. Then messages. "Xing? Are you okay? Call me. Please."
His father. A message. "Son. Call your mom. She's agitated."
Agitated. Yes. They would be. Disappointed. If I… No. Not this. Not again.
The pain of their grief. It was a slow burn in his chest. A nagging, persistent thump against the infinite chasm. A fissure. In the stronghold. A thin beam of light. Damn this. Curse this. Hyper-hope.
He sat up. Gradually. Agonizingly. He looked at the phone. His mother's face. His father's. In his mind. Their tears. Their grief. No. Not that. Not… my legacy. Their agony.
He would not be a Nastrophy for them. He would not consume their joy. He would not disappear. Not like this. Not for them.
He breathed in shudderingly. His body screamed for sleep, for food, for oblivion. But his mind, for one fleeting moment, held firm. Not today. Not this time. Not for them.
He knew the feeling would not last. The hollowness would return. The whispers. The fear of failure. But for this moment, in this cold, impersonal hotel room, looking out over the uninterested sea, he came to a decision. Not to live. But not to die. Not yet. Not for them. And maybe, just maybe, that was the start. A tiny, broken, almost invisible start. The sea continued with its endless repetition, huge, uninterested observer of his shattered, desperate resolve.
The next day, his body ached. Not with exhaustion, but with the stifling weight of his decision. He had to not die. It wasn't living. Not in any real sense. But it was movement. A reluctant stride, perhaps, over a desolate wasteland. He left the hotel room. The corridor was long, faceless. The lift descended, a chill whisper of metal, taking him down to the unfeeling lobby. He stepped out. The sun hit him, a jagged, burning blow.
The beach. It was there. Still existing. Still uninterested. The children still cried. The couples still strolled. And he, Xing, remained a ghost among them. He walked on the beach, the sand burning his worn-out sneakers, the surf a dull roar, a reminder of the forgetting that he had put off.
Walk. Just walk. One foot. In front of the other. No purpose. Just… movement. To prove. To prove what? To whom? To the void? To Mama? To the monster? I'm here. Still here. A burden. A ghost. But… here.
His mind strayed. Reiner. His finest moment. The one who always fought. Who always won. In the game. In his head. Reiner. He is due. A resolution. Alternative. A happy one. Not this. Not the quiet. Loss. On the beach.
He started scheming. A story. For Reiner. A real ending. A true conclusion. Not just a pretender of a respite from the game. He envisioned Reiner, after the battle with Odell. Not defeated. Not quieted. Victorious. But how? The humans. They quieted his power. They couldn't see. Couldn't understand. Ah. That's it. The misunderstanding. The veil. Between worlds.
Reiner, bruised but unshattered, stands outside of humanity. He sees their ignorance. He understands. His fight is not against them. It is for them. Despite their sightlessness. He finds Aron. His uncle. A man he had always pictured as a stern, wise elder. But in this new dream, Aron is different. He does not stand in a wasteland kingdom, but in a hidden place. A place of tremendous beauty. And tremendous danger.
The Field of Poppies. Yes. There. Aron resides. A sea. Of red. Swaying. Under an other sun. Petals. Soft. Velvety. A dream. Realized. But… a dream. With fangs.
He envisioned Aron, not as a warrior, but as a guardian. Of the field. Of its secrets. The poppies. They burned with a soft, hypnotic glow. Reiner approaches him, spent, beaten by the world's deafness, not Odell's power.
"Uncle Aron," the voice of Reiner in Xing's mind no longer held in check. It is weighed down by his battle. "The humans. They don't see. They don't understand. Our power. It's… nothing to them. They make it so."
Aron, wise eyes like deep pools of the crimson poppies, slowly nods. "The poppy. It gives two ways, Reiner. Two fates. Depending on how you use it. Its essence. Its truth."
Xing walked more slowly now, his gaze fixed on a distant point on the horizon, the line between sea and sky blurring. The poppy. My poppy. The common one. Not opium. But still. A symbol. Of choice. Of fate. Of… death.
The poppy. To others. Brings. Slumber. A soft forgetting. An end. To the anguish. That is. Deliverance. A happy. Forgetfulness. From the din. From the clamor. From the whispers. Of worthlessness.
But for the others. The poppy. It brings. Death. Harsh, final penalty. For the weakness. For failure. For the decision. To succumb. To the emptiness. A darkness. Complete. Indomitable. A curse. A judgment. Inaugurated. By your own hand.
He envisioned Aron continuing. "The humans. They want sleep. They want forgetfulness. From their own wars. Their own horrors. They don't know. The poppy's true potential. Or true cost."
Reiner, within Xing's head, looks out at the sea of field. The poppies, each a tiny universe of red, seem to vibrate with an invisible energy. "So, if I use it. for peace?"
"You would find it," Aron replies, his tone a dry rustle of petal. "A sleep deep and dreamless. An asylum from the fighting. From the exhaustion. From the constant, unthankful struggle. You would wake. Or you would not. And it would be… peace."
Xing's movements were slow. His chest weighted like lead. Sleep. Salvation. The easy. The tempting. End. The single. I so nearly took. But… the tears. Their tears. My curse. Not my salvation.
"And if I use. for fighting?" Reiner queries, his hand instinctively rising to the hilt of his sword, a gesture which Xing can sense in his own ghost limb.
Aron's gaze seems to delve deeper, resonating with the red of the field. "Then you will be forced to understand, Reiner, that the real power of the poppy is not its forgetting, but its transformation. Its essence, if you understand it, will stir. Not slumber, but awareness. Not tranquility, but resolve. If you use it to fight, to push beyond the very barriers that seek to quiet you, then it is a rebuke to your enemies. It brings their ruin. Their loss. Not yours."
Transform. Yes. That is the solution. Not run. Not forgetfulness. But… a transformation. A tool. Against the silence. Against the apathy. Against Odell. Against… myself.
Reiner, in Xing's mind, understood. He looked at Aron, then at the poppies, his eyes burning with new fire. He would not seek sleep. He would seek power. To fight. To overcome. To shatter the silencing shroud of human indifference. His victorious ending would be one not of quiet retreat, but of glorious, if unrecognized, triumph.
Xing stopped. He was standing at the farthest point of the beach. Sand gave way to a rocky outcropping. The waves crashed against the rocks, the noise louder and more urgent than anything he had ever heard before. He looked down at his own hand. Empty. No poppy. No knife. Only the slight tremble of his own exhaustion.
A good ending. For Reiner. But for me? The silencing. It remains. The worthlessness. Still a murmur. The fear. Still a specter.
He headed back towards the hotel, the sun descending, lighting long shadows across the sand. The air was beginning to cool, but he had another sort of cold. The cold of insidious despair. The cold of a war not yet engaged and won. A war he fought without allies. In a world that only understood "pretend."
The poppy. It has two options. And I. I am left. On the edge. Of both. Not chosen. Not yet.
He returned to his hotel room. The hum of the air conditioning. The neutral silence. He looked at the rumpled letter. The hollow paper. The worst book. He had written not a word. A single word. The fantasy, the real, evaporated. He knew Reiner's happy ending. But his own? Still a blank page. Still an interrogation mark. The murmur of the waves, an absent, rhythmic reminder. The temptation of forgetfulness. Still there. Waiting.