Lyor was trapped. In the bathroom again. He remembered the smell of the gas. The pain of suffocation.
He wished he could be in that strange village in his dream. Or even in that suffocating company. anywhere but there.
His breath picked up as the helplessness seeped into his bones.
But unlike before, his spine wasn't digging into the cold bathtub.
Something soft underneath. Something soft under his palms. Soft like the cat's fur he was holding earlier.
It was the first time he had a nice dream after his mother passed away 4 years ago.
A soft sound escaped as he tried to breathe.
As he pried open his eyes, he wasn't met with the ashen ceiling.
Instead, he was looking at a warm wooden ceiling, decorated with plants and herbs hanging from it, swaying gently in a breeze he couldn't feel. The wood was pale, almost glowing, and he had never seen such kind of a wood before. Dried bundles of herbs and plants dangled above him, their scents mingling into something that slowed his racing heart without him noticing.
"Wha..." A cough escaped before he could even think about finishing that word. A face came into his view, effectively startling him.
"Hello, there... Don't worry." She said, the same woman he saw when he reached the clearing.
He tried to sit up with effort and the woman closed in to lend a hand. Lyor shook his head in denial and propped himself up, every muscle trembling with the familiar effort of moving with urgency.
Time was money.
"Do you need some water?"
He sure did but he shook his head again and looked around trying to figure out where this place was. The room was circular, he realized, with windows that held no glass but some flexible, breathing material that let in light filtered green from the plants outside. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars that glowed faintly in different colors, and more herbs than he could name. A low table held bowls and tools carved from wood so dark in contrast to all other material. Everything had its place. Nothing was broken.
"Where?" His hands flew to cover his mouth a bit too late as his voice escaped before the permission to speak was provided. Another cough followed by a wince.
"Tsk." He heard another voice to his right and turned immediately only to have a weird looking bowl thrust towards his face. His body coiled at the movement.
It was carved from something that looked like stone but felt light, lined with a smooth glaze the color of pink. Water inside caught the light and shimmered.
"Be gentle, Sol." The woman said with no spite in her voice. Yet he couldn't afford to accept anything knowing he couldn't pay in return.
Lyor was supposed to be more scared, waking up in a place that he didn't know, surrounded by unknown people, but for some reason, this place felt safe. The air moved differently here, not trapped and recycled but fresh, carrying scents of growing things and clean water.
The light was soft, coming from crystals that dimmed gradually rather than the light in the apartment flicking on and off with poverty. Even the blanket on his lap screamed coziness he had yearned so much to have.
"You want to know where you are now, right?" The woman asked, distracting him from wandering his eyes around, taking the bowl from the person named Sol. Lyor didn't dare to look at him again.
One glance was enough to capture the intimidating gaze in his green eyes, scrunched eyebrows that showed clear annoyance, and the scars on his face. A soldier's face. The kind of face that delivered punishment in his life.
He nodded slowly.
"Here, drink first." She offered.
Lyor shook his head not knowing how much it cost let alone if he was allowed to speak. People hated his voice and almost never let him speak or even let him ask questions. Speaking meant demanding attention. Demanding meant punishment.
"Okay," She kept the bowl on the table beside him and looked at him. Lyor immediately glanced down.
No eye contact!
"I know all of this must be startling to you. But you don't have to worry. You are in Nemeteia and this is your new home."
The words echoed in his head.
Hands clutched the blanket laid on his lap hearing the word, 'new home.'
If he was alone, he would have laughed at how pathetic as the realization dawned.
The situation was crystal clear now.
He has been abandoned by his father and he was given to these people. That was maybe why he didn't open the door last time. Probably his father already got a good amount of money by giving him to these people so that he could work everyday for more hours, unlike at an office.
It was good that his father could earn more money. Money could give him happiness that he couldn't give as his son.
It could give happiness that he stole from him by letting his mother lose her life over him.
His hand rubbed over his chest as the base of his throat started hurting.
He should be happy that he finally had become so useful even though his father had given him away.
So why was he crying?