There was nothing like watching a break of dawn. How the growing igniting ember of the tiniest ball banished the night from forevermore. Euca though, cared none of that. He took a glance at the rising sun before mouthing a curse under his breath —stuffing his hands even deeper into his already thin sleeves.

 

The lingered night cold still bites and he could felt yesterday's exhaustion threaten to set its final claw.

 

It had been a day since his last meal. A paltry leftover. Half of egg salad sandwich from Tuesday's midnight snacking. He regretted it now. What a wasted chance. To be fair, he didn't know he would end up in this ...pickle. Still, he should have make a proper breakfast. No matter how hectic the morning rush. It just good sense.

 

Five minutes. It only took a damn five minutes to whip a scrambled egg. Less, if all did was pouring cereal's in a bowl of milk. God, he could drink three glasses of that now. But no. He chose to clamp down that damn ...delicious, creamy, finger-sized sandwich! Oh! The tangy note of the mayonnaise. How it contrasted divinely with—

 

"—Gurgle..." not with you, he chastised his stomach. It grumbled with hunger pang. With Sal's ketchup!

 

He took a look to his side. His only companion, slung by shoulder blade: his water bottle. It was that casted wood pattern's fancy he got when Patergie's having their lunar new year sale. Since yesterday, he'd been sipping its content in futile attempt to distract himself.

 

Yet, he couldn't help but to do just that. Even when his rational self told him not to. His hand ever so slowly moves, centimeter by centimeter to reach i—

 

—Splosh.

 

He winced. His hand hung in the air, stopping. The sound. It hit with loud vibrato that blare a mostly empty container. By its trailing echo, he only has a third. Perhaps a fourth of the water left.

 

For all he knew, he still has a quite of trek to go.

 

The young man stomped his step stout. Trying to push indentation of his shoes diminished soles to grip even a bit more friction. It's not easy. The mud was fighting him each and every step. He'd been walking for hours now. Twice he almost slipped. Joy, he knew.

 

Several steps ahead he stopped to crouch. A stick was jutting, enveloped by beds of wet leaves. He lifted it from the ground, feeling its rough texture. He could do a walking stick. He needs all energy that he can spare.

 

Aside from the wetted surface, the stick seemed to be dried. Which was perfect. But it also shorts, which was not. He tried it for a run, hobbling. Imitating Mr. Cerecero, his across-door neighbor.

 

No this won't do. He has to bow to use it. Not much, just a bit. Not even a length of his palm. But walking stick supposed to help him walk, not adding another layer of danger. Turning his head around, he found nothing better. Others on his vision were either too large, a twine, or infested with some kind of crawling white bugs.

 

Sighing, he let the stick dropped.

 

It was just like yesterday. Because it did just happen yesterday. He felt his eye rolled. Making a dad joke? Well, he'd likely die. With how the wind blew, hypothermia would set in by the end of the day if —Well, when— he failed to found shelter. So what few self-deprecating jokes?

 

And he did already trying to ...imitate those desert island's contestants. He tried rubbing two sticks together. Resulting in mild rash. Then, he tried to tell north by the side of moss growth. Which was hard, since THERE WERE NO MOSSES, and he did see a setting sun. So yeah ...that one wasn't his brightest.

 

For last, he put his ear on the ground. Listening for water streams. Which of course, if it's not obvious by now, failed.

 

He looked toward the towering trees, toward the slanted light streaming from the sparsed foliage. It was late afternoon when he awakened in what he dubbed as "nowhere forest". A surprising turn of events for him.

 

Ha! Surprising? What he meant was harrowing...

 

In the tenth of seconds after he woke, he dug deep to his know-how of disproving a dream; from the all popular pinching himself, five digits addition, and memory recall by reciting his family tree.

 

The result, let say were not encouraging.

 

Saving the case that he truly had too far gone —which was possible, his constant staying up until 2.am was indeed an early-onset Alzheimer's risk factor— he was certain that he in fact wasn't dreaming.

 

Thus, his. Well, his likely addled-brain, pointed out that next logical conclusion. Which has the same level of veracity as his first guess.

 

He had been a victim of kidnapping.

 

Admittedly, it's a far-fetched, nonsense logical leap that he, a reasonable person who can separate their reality of daily grind from the excitement of movie plot, should be able to tell. Yet, he could not, for the life of him could think another reason for his thousand miles of misplacement.

 

Perhaps one might ask? How about drunk driving? A drunk walking around, taking a midnight train, hitchhiked with a random stranger, and dumped in middle of inter-province road? Scoffing at that thought, Euca struck that possibility down.

 

One, he'd been dry since forever. Barring the seasonal cough syrup, never in his life, he consumed any alcohol in recreational capacity. That's why Derek sometimes called him, well, names.

 

Which was insulting, since he'd LOVE to accept more good-hearted juvenile bashing like party pooper, or Mr.No-Fun, or even God forbid, Stiff. But no. His best friend has to go with Permanent Designated Driver. Which is why he billed him twice the Uber fee that day.

 

And two, he was what people charitably call, a homebody. He almost never went out of his city —well, his town if he care about semantic— for recreational purposes. Derek sometimes invited him to his family fishing trips. But that more going through the motion kind of thing, like when he invited him to attend his monthly people watching —which was NOT CREEPY, if you're doing it from park's bench and not following them for ten minutes to gather more data.

 

Still, they both agreed, unspoken of course, that the modern world has inflicted them with rather severe cases of FOMO. So better save the feeling of everyone involved.

 

Hence, what kind of kidnapper that would just dump his hostage in unknown forest? A maf —gentleman kidnapper perhaps? Who has an ongoing bitter rivalry with another gentleman group? He felt his mind spun.

 

So they kidnapped him —for whatever reason— and also for whatever reason they found out his sorry ass was a burden in their impromptu, surprise-round, strategic retreat. After all who was he in front of the important service of supplying the local populace with the much-needed pharmaceutical-assisted escapism?

 

Luckily for him, —he felt dirty saying that— the forest itself was made of what seems to be a yellow-green colored birch. Yes. A forest. Not a jungle deep that his father side uncle often regale. Which meant no wild animal. Probably.

 

It was fifteen minutes walk when he noticed the already sparsed trees become even sparser. Then, there was none. In front of him was a clearing with only one or two leaves littering each meter.

 

 

"I-I'm saved..."

 

"...t-thank you."

 

"Th-thank you! Thankyouthankyou! THANK YOU!"

 

Euca heard himself chortling, eye red. His right was especially puffy. Shedding a drop of salty tear flowing down his choked throat. He rummaged his back pocket for handkerchief. It was empty. Hesitating for a bit, he blew his sniffles to the edge of his shirt, clearing his nose.

 

For a moment there he stood. Letting the relief washed over him —before proceeding to wipe his blurry eyes and start reassessing his situation.

 

The road was wide. Perhaps. He didn't know, rubbing his eyes again. He was not an authority of road. But it could fit around three, maybe four cars side by side if the traffic officer look the other way and the driver was really, really skilled. So that's good, no one built this kind of road unless it's used.

 

And used often it was.

 

With his sight cleared again he saw wheel marks. They were overlapping with each other. Indicating it was well-traveled.

 

Still, he was not sure how to proceed, the wheel marks were lacking in ridges. Just two straight lines spaced with each other. And even with those he still wouldn't know. Derek would, he thought.

 

Now he has three choices. One was going north, following the muddy path. Two was going south. Also following the muddy path. Three was staying put, waiting for someone to come. He tempted to chose the third. His foot already sore from all the walking.

 

But no, he took another look at the forest floor. He was lucky yesterday night that he found a dried patch under a big canopy. He didn't even realize it was a tree because God, it's enormous. Like the redwoods he watched on the docuseries. But now the ground he trailed was either muddy or covered in wet leaves.

 

He must move.

 

He decided to walked north. The trees were sparser. A telltale it was closer to the civilization.

 

Or so he hoped.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Hm, what's that?"

 

Euca stopped. His peripheral caught something odd. Wincing, he regretted doing that. A sharp jolt of pain reminded he still stood on muds.

 

Thank goodness it doesn't sprain. What was he thinking? He could've slipped. How ironic that would be after finding some clue of possible survival. Here lies Euca, died as he was alive: slipping toward oblivion.

 

Sighing. He turned his head left side. Might as well take a look, what in the hell name that makes him st—

 

—is that real?

 

"T-that's not right..."

 

A deep purple, almost blackish root was entangling one of the birches, leaving the branches bare.

 

Cracked wooden high without a single sprout of leaf, struggling to support its own weight.

 

Around it, the other birches look ill too. Their leaves yellow, their trunk dried.

 

The root was a parasite. Of the worst kind.

 

That's not what drew Euca eyes though. No. What drew his eyes was its flower.

 

 

"...is this real?" rubbing his eyes several times, Euca found that the flower was still there and not a figment of his hunger-induced imagination.

 

The flower was black. No. Not black. Dark. Like the part of deepest night. Like his ceiling when it's blackout. The flower was dark.

 

How he knew it was a flower was even more bizarre. It has an outline. An outline made of purplish neon glow. Circling its five petals with seldom buzz.

 

That's not even its most unusual properties. It's the glow. The glow! It looks like light itself was drawn, sucked. And not just a cut in the space like seeing a vantablack. No. It was a progressive, darkening dark. The light was getting dimmer the closer you were to the flower. Pretty sure that not how vantablack works.

 

"... not to discount polarization effect like chirality. But that only applies when viewing light from certain angle, and I mean, it's... there are no winds!" fumbling. He swung around his hand feeling for a breeze. None. The wind that has blown since he woke up now stopped.

 

He took a step back. Taking a look from down, left, and right. There was no difference.

 

"A true black body. But how could I still see the outline?"

 

"This makes no sense. If only I brought my scissors —NO, BAD EUCA—, If only I brought my camera."

 

"Phone! Yes! Where is it?"

 

"..and of course it's gone. Tha-that damned kidnapper!"

 

"Should I touch it?" saying he was tempted would be an understatement. This was huge. Per-perhaps he could reach that 20 on his h-index in a year? His left hand moved. Ever so slowly, reaching the—

 

—he froze. Slapping his left hand, he trembles. What was he doing? He almost touched a specimen with unknown properties! And more importantly: unknown danger!

 

"...I suppose I should just note the place and cam—"

 

 

"*COUGH!* *UGHK!* My eyes! What the HEC-!" The flower sprayed at him! God! Water, water. Where is that bottle when he needs it?

 

"Ehe."

 

"Heh. Hehe..."

 

"HehehEhEehe..."

 

"EheHEHE!"

 

 

"muAhahAHhahAHHA HA! HA... HA... HA! I CAN DO ANYTHING!"

 

 

"I'M IN TOP OF THE WORLD!"

 

 

"WHO CARES AM I LOST IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE! THE GREAT AMAZING ME, MUST BE ABLE TO FIND DESTINATION BY JUST POINTING MY FINGER!"

 

"THERE—"

 

 

"puAh!! what the HELL? Who ARE..are..YOU..—help—.. PEOPLE!"

 

 

"Keep splashing. Aim to his face."

 

"S-sToP, PUAH! S-STOP!!"

 

"Continue."

 

"Aargh!"

 

"Hold him still," the woman nod. Throwing the jug, she sprinted toward the young man, holding him down. A red gleam enveloped her body.

 

"GET OFF ME!" Euca scream. Struggling. He tried to punch the woman. How dare she touch the great him? She should just drop dead!

 

It's no use though. Her grips were too strong. He can't move beyond useless wiggles. She weighed like his new spring bed. A slip in the doorway and he was buried for solid half-hour. At least until Derek came to his rescue.

 

"HRKK"

 

Euca feels his throat tighten. The old man! He choked him! What the hell? Are they with the mafia? That's right stupid baldhead! He's not afraid to say the word now!

 

"Don't move, boy!" With his left hand, the old man yanks Eucas' back hair. Pulling it upward.

 

It's hurt! It's hurt! What with this crazy mafia! Shouldn't they just extort him? Take his stuff? No... His stuff was already taken. Except for that water bottles. Why are they doing this then? They dropped him in the middle of nowhere, making him spend the night in a god-awful forest, and now they beating him up! What the hell? Is this some kind of sick game?

 

"D-damn you."

 

"Splash him again."

 

 

"Aah!"

 

"I said don't move, boy."

 

He froze. The old ma— no, the old mafioso draw a machete. A freaking big ass machete! With silvery gleam and all that.

 

"Now tell me where's your company?"

 

"M-my what?"

 

Flicking his hand. The old man put the machete on his neck. J-just a few more millimeters and he's a goner.

 

"Your company! Your friend, boy! Don't try to play with me!"

 

"Hiii!"

 

"Tell me where they are! Or..." the old man left the last part unsaid. Not that it was important, he could feel the iron cold of the machete's blade touching his neck.

 

"I-I don't know! I don't know! P-please sir, I'm alone!"

 

"He's useless, sir."

 

"Bah! If you don't want to talk, you might as well die."

 

He saw the old man draw the machete backward. Arcing it to his neck.

 

S-so this was it. This was how he died. At least it was unique. How many people could say they died to a freaking machete? He supposed it a tad less cool than those who died by artillery firing, drone bombing, or god forbid, nuclear explosion. But it's enough. It's enough. He'll take it. Better this than died alone in some nowhere retirement home.

 

 

What happened?! Amusement and acceptance? He's going to die for god sake! Nonetheless, he felt a part of him seize that train with such a force it frightened him.

 

So this is what it called? Being human? A contradiction even in death? He always thought he would die kicking and screaming. Those don't go gentle into that good night kind of thing. But that part of him won't let that thought go. He tried to scream, he tried to cry. Yet, all he found was peace. Fear and peace. But, mostly peace.

 

He closed his eyes. Good night, Euca.

 

.

 

A breath passed

 

.

 

Then the next.

 

.

 

.

 

Then the other next.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

He opened his eyes. The old man had sheathed his machete. He's laying on the forest floor.

 

"W-why?" he felt his body shivering. On the exposed edge of his left ankle, he felt a slight itch from the muddy ground. He let it be though. Staring at the open sky, he repeated his question once more.

 

"Why?"

 

"He seems all right right now, Sir."

 

"Are your mind clear now, boy?"

 

"W-what?"

 

"Are your mind clear, now?"

 

"Of course my mind is clear! Who are you peop—"

 

His mind! That flower pollen! H-How? Euca head snapped. Turning to the old man. Then, to the woman before back to the old man again.

 

"A-are...you...helping... me?"

 

"Looks the boy all right."

 

"T-thank you... Thank you! Thank you!!! I'm sorry I swore at you..."

 

"...what happens to me?"

 

"You boy, got a bad case of Verdi."

 

"V-verdi?"

 

"Verdi. Fool's bravery. See those? Those are Eperti. Its damned pollen was born from dark malice of —grace us with your light of day— Kraa himself. " " the old man pulled his right palm to his chest, facing front. "Give it an hour and you will challenge kobold chieftain with your bare hand."

 

"W-what?!"

 

 

But, the flower! The woman's red glow!

 

"The only cure is a depressing thought. Terrible, terrible depressing thought."

 

"...or spirits."

 

"Yes, or five pints of spirits, Amy. Five damn pints. Haven't I taught you better?"

 

"Sorry, sir."

 

"...Never waste your wares. You have a good heart, Amy. But not all people were decent. And not all those decent have money."

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"I'm sorry, Mr..."

 

"Terence. Call me Terence boy."

 

"Mr. Terence."

 

"Why are you here boy? Are you lost?"

 

 

 

"Y-yes. I just on my way to the nearest town." phew. Would that be enough? He could just pretend to be confused from those V-whatever. Yes. Yes! That's should do it!

 

"Ar'endal? Just half day away then. Come. Amy will lend you new shirt while we dry yo—"

 

"UNCLE, What's taking you so long?" staggering, the young man stands. He could see a miffed young boy around thirteen, perhaps fourteen years old shouting at the old ma— at Mr. Terence, running at him.

 

The boy was followed by another man. He looked frazzled. Struggling between keeping the boy in line and placating a...horse? It seemed to be a horse. But it couldn't be a horse. Normal horses didn't have cracked stone scales as skin, do they? And were those old wild west styles' carriages?

 

 

"Eh.. who's this weirdo?" the young boy said toward the still reeling Euca who currently struggling to grip this new reality. The young man just stood there, his eyes never leaving the horse.

 

"—urs. Don't interrupt me Besnik. I'll be there shortly." Mr. Terence shot an apologetic smile at the other man.

 

"Have you finish practicing your letters?"

 

"Eeeh."

 

"Besnik, when I agreed to let you join this—"

 

"Okay, okay, I'll finish it. Sheesh..."

 

"That brat! I thought my older brother was exaggerating. Not one peaceful day since —Bah! Forget it!"

 

"Right I haven't got your name. What is your name again, boy?" the old man turned toward Euca.

 

"Boy?"

 

"A-ah Euca, my name is Euca."