He pushed open the door. And stepped outside. Into the harsh. Unfeeling. Light. The street. Was still thronged. The noise. Still cacophonous. But something. Was different. Within him. A small. Seed. Of a poppy. Had been planted. Not for forgetfulness. But for. Transformation. The way. Was not ended. It had merely. Begun. And this time. He would walk it. Not as a ghost. But as. Xing. Gradually. Torturously. But. Xing.
The next few days were evidence of his fragile dedication. Not a triumphant homecoming, but a trudging, dusty march. He wasn't fine. The hollowness still whispered sweet nothing in his ear. The monster still hummed its mournful tune. But he walked. He ate. He slept. And he hunted.
His computer, once a doorway to mystical worlds, now a doorway to the chocking reality of unemployment. He browsed job advertisements. Blank. The same. Call center. Data entry. Retail. All of them a ghostly reminder of his past failures. He applied. Click. Click. Click. Every click a small act of defiance against the chocking enormity of despair. No responses. Or robot rejections. Form letters. So polite. So unimportant. Like my existence. To them.
The bookstore application. No answer yet. He kept it. A small, irrational spark. Books. Words. Maybe. Maybe maybe. Another cage. A window. Not nothing.
His gaming Facebook page. That was his other existence. His own existence. Where Xing, the pathetic call center rep, was Suna, the mighty warrior. He spent hours on it. Editing gaming videos. Cutting with care. Applying special effects. Posting comments on other gamers' statuses. Giving tips. His follower count, a dogged creep upward. From 600 to 605. To 608. Each new follower, a tiny thumbs-up. A blast of oxygen in the oppressive vacuum.
They stare at me. There. They know. Suna. Not Xing. But. Suna. Am I. A piece. A better. Piece. A struggling. Piece.
He decided. To invest. A bit. From his meager resources. For advertising. Facebook ads. To gamers. To isolation. To flee. A gamble. A desperate. Attempt. To the algorithm. To get me. More hits. More acknowledgement. More. Proof. I am. Even if. Only virtually.
The world of fantasy. Reiner. Always there. A presence. His story incorporated into Xing's own fluctuating despair and hope.
Reiner is within the Poppy Field. The scarlet petals swirling. An ocean. Of quiet secrets. Aron. His eyes so ancient. Deep. Contemplative. The possibilities.
"Uncle Aron," Reiner's voice, resolute. "The transformation. You spoke of. How?"
Aron, to Xing, is a shadow against the burning red. "It is not a 'how,' Reiner. It is a 'why.' Why do you fight? Why do you awaken? The poppy, it brings awareness. Of self. Of enemy. Of the threads. That bind. The threads. That mute."
The threads. That bind. My childhood. My fear. Of failure. My sister. Lily. Her cold. Disappointment. My boss. Marius. His disdain. All threads. All muting. Me.
Reiner traverses the field. The ground is changed. Not just soft earth. But thudding. With force. With lost. Potential. He perceives the Nastrophies. Not dark shapes. But distortions. In the very essence. Of reality. Born of human. Indifference. Their shared. Unconsciousness. Their refusal. To perceive. The deeper. Realities.
"They feed," Reiner whispers, his hand sweeping over a poppy. "On misery. On worthlessness. On the unspoken. Despair."
Yes. My despair. My own. Nastrophies. Feeding. Growing. Inside.
Aron nods. "And if you let them feed, Reiner, they consume not only souls, but worlds. The Tree of Worlds. It withers. Each branch. A dying realm. Each leaf. A fading life."
The Tree of Worlds. My life. My mind. Withering. Fading. Because I let. The Nastrophies. The worthlessness. The fear. Devour.
Reiner closes his eyes. Remembers the deserted beach. The humans. Waiting. Entertained. Muted. Remembers Zoe's pitiful, unheeded screams. Lux's futile movements. Crimson's sarcastic laugh. The raw, agonizing helplessness. Of being unobserved.
He opens his eyes. A fierce determination. Blazes inside of them. "No. I will not let them. Not my world. Not these worlds. Not this life. I will fight. For them. For us. For the recognition."
Aron smiles. A old, rare warmth. "Then the poppy's essence, Reiner, is not for you alone. It is for those whom you're fighting for. It is the awakening. Of their perception. Their sight. Not yours alone."
Their eyes. My parents. My mother. My father. They see. My specter. My worthlessness. But when I struggle. When I transform. When I awaken. Will they see? A different. Me? Will they see. A reason. To hope? Not just. To mourn?
The idea. It was. A faint. Glimmer. In Xing's mind. A final. Sustainer. For Reiner. And for himself. That the fight. The transformation. Might bring. Not just deliverance. For him. But for others. Whom he had interest in. Those. Who would be concerned. Those. Who would be upset. If he. Fell.
He returned home. The apartment. Still the same. His mother. Still sitting in the living room. Her eyes. Teeming with questions. He placed on a smile. A real one. Almost.
"Mama. I'm fine. Honestly."
She looked at him. Her eyes. Hesitating. "You're still very thin, son."
Thin. Yes. My body. A map. Of the emptiness. But. I'm here. Still here. For them.
He swallowed. Forced it down. Still tasted ash. But he did. A little. Act. Of survival. Of rebellion. He entered. Powered on his computer.
The job search. It was a drudgery. An atonement. Each resume. A new hurt. But he did it. Methodically. Like Suna. Deliberately. Charting a new territory. For foes. For resources. For a way. To survive.
Money problems. A new. Beast. Nastrophies. But. True. This time. Not just. In my head. True. Bills. True. Hunger. True. Fear.
He did have savings. But they were dwindling. Fast. Daily. A dwindling. Stack. He looked at his bank statement. The numbers. A bitter. Harsh. Reality. No job. No money. Soon. Nothing. Just. This. Room. And. The beast. Emerges.
He remembered Aron's words. Change. Not forgetting. How to change. This money. Despair. Into. Something. Else?
His Facebook gaming profile. He clicked it. The new video. Uploaded yesterday. Already. Views. Likes. Comments. More than usual. "Great gameplay, Suna!" "Love your editing!" "Keep it up!"
They see me. They care. About Suna. About my stuff. My haven. My… art.
He looked at the promotion tab. The paltry sum. He had saved. A gamble. A desperate. Final. Hail. To nothingness. To send me. More eyes. More approval. More. Money? No. Not money. Not yet. Just. Approval. First.
He clicked. Accept. The money. Deposited. A small. Ripple. In his low. Balance.
What if. Doesn't work. What if. Nobody cares? What if. The money. Is being wasted? Then. Am I. Actually. Ineffective. Actually. Done for.
The fear. It was. A cold. Fingers. Around his throat. But the vision. Of Aron. In the Poppy Field. His ancient eyes. Leading. Reiner. To change. It flashed. Before his eyes.
Aron. He spoke. The poppy. Can cause. Death. Or. Salvation. Depending on. How you employ it. My money. My time. My effort. My risk. My poppy.
He thought of his parents. Their faces. His father's unspoken strength. His mother's endless worry. They live. For me. I live. For them. Because. I don't. Want to die. Not. For them. Not. To bring them. Pain.
He needed to find an answer. Not just for himself. But for them. His financial problems. They were not solely his. They were theirs too. Their silent fears. Their invisible burdens. He needed to relieve them. In some form.
He glared at the screen. The gaming page. His passion. His escape. His… potential. Could it be? An exit? Not escape. But a path. A real path. To solvency. To meaning. To not being. A drain on resources. To not being. worthless.
The fight. Is real. The monsters. Are real. But. The war. Is also. Real. And I. I have to. I have to fight. For them. For that. Little. Glimmer. Of hope. That. I don't. Don't want to die. Not. Today.
He started planning. Not just gameplay clips. But streams. Live streams. Talking to fans. Building a community. Maybe. Maybe. Ads on his channel. Donations. A trickle. A little. Income stream. A beginning. A small. Act of. Change.
The idea. It was. Flimsy. Insane. Given he was. Where he was. Desperate. But it was. A plan. A real. Action. Away from. The precipice. Away from. The hotel roof. Away from. The still. Silence.
He spent the rest of the evening. Not looking for work. Not crying. But plotting. Considering streaming. Looking at hardware. His head. Whirring. Not with chaos. But with. Intent. A new intent. Small and uncertain. But. An intent.
His body ached still. The emptiness buzzed still. But he was present. In his chair. Plotting. Gritting. For them. For him. For the poppy. That contained. Promise. Of change. And for the weak. Fragile. Smile. That might. One day. Truly. Be his own. The game. His sanctuary. Now. Perhaps. His salvation. The eternal summer. Suffered. But something. Had altered. Within the heat. Within the light. Within Xing.