The ceiling above me is a mess of off-white plaster, cracked in places like a poorly-made map leading to nowhere. A fitting reflection of my life, I suppose. A map of nothing, leading exactly to where I am now: nowhere, with a fast-approaching expiration date.
Shit.
They say your life flashes before your eyes when you're dying. Hogwash, mostly. At least, for me. There are no grand epiphanies here, no sudden realisations of some profound cosmic truth.
Ha.
Just… a dull ache, both in my chest where the wasting sickness claws its way through my insides, and into my soul where regret has rooted itself.
My life wasn't terrible, mind you. Not by any stretch. Just… unremarkable. Bland, like white people food. My life could be compared to the flavourless gruel of existence served up on a cracked porcelain plate.
I had parents, once. A mother who smelled of lilac and baked bread, a father whose hands were always calloused from working the fields. They loved me, I think. In that quiet, unassuming way of country folk who don't have the time nor the inclination for grand displays of affection.
I'm sure they did. They had to. I wasn't the best kid but…
Well, they're long gone now, dust to dust, like they always told me people would be. Time takes its toll on everyone, I guess. I should have visited their graves more often. Another regret to add to the ever-growing pile—a little last minute though. Tch.
My childhood was the usual countryside fare, filled with the kind of freedom kids from the city could only dream of. I'd spend days tearing through fields of wheat taller than myself. My friends and I were a raggedy bunch, Elias with his gap-toothed grin, Clara with her always-stained knees from playing, and me. We were a small band of little troublemakers, rulers of our own little imaginary kingdom. We built forts out of sticks and anything we could use, battle imaginary dragons with our fake swords under the branches of oak trees.
Then came the day everything changed. Fire. Fire chose me. I remember the feeling — a sudden burning heat that I could feel pulsing in my chest, followed by a rush of power that left me trembling. I was 6 years old.
Flames danced across my skin responding to a will I didn't even know I possessed. My friends, they were terrified. They screamed and ran away like mice before a cat. I couldn't blame them though, I was terrified too. But that spark is what got me a ticket to the Capital, to the Academy, where mages were forged. I was a poor country boy thrust into a world of polished marble, a world of noble lineages, and dastardly politics.
I was sorted into the fire mages, naturally.
The Academy was… challenging for lack of a better word. I was surrounded by children born with silver and gold spoons, some with centuries of magical bloodlines flowing through their veins. They wielded magic with an ease I could only dream of attaining. I struggled. I struggled time and time again. I couldn't keep up so I… I!
I did what I had to. I started taking… supplements. Nothing illegal, of course, not at first at least. Just little things, tonics and elixirs that promised to enhance my abilities, just enough to give me the edge I needed.
They worked, for a time. My magic got better, my control sharpened. I could finally hold my own against some of the talented ones. But the boost was temporary, and the price… the price was my health. I should probably never have trusted the words of some shady back alley potions seller.
Idiot.
I spent my life chasing power, only to have it slip through my fingers like grains of sand. And for what? To end up here, alone, with nothing but the ceiling of my apartment and this rackety bed.
I wonder how much time I have left? Probably not long given the pain.
Ha. Hahaha. Shit. I'm going mad.
Darkness began to creep in from the edges of my vision. I welcomed it. Anything is better than this… I closed my eyes, then a final shuddering breath escaped my lips as I sank into the blackness…
…and for some reason they opened again.
But it wasn't the cracked, off-white plaster that greeted me. No. The ceiling was different, smooth and painted a warm, creamy yellow. This wasn't the end I was expecting. Was this some twisted version of the afterlife?
Just where the hell…
I tried to sit up, and to my surprise, my body obeyed. No racking coughs, no agonising pain. Just… a lightness I hadn't felt in years. I was sitting on something soft, a sofa made of rough, dark wood, the king my dad used to carve in his spare time. It was solid, real, and familiar. Hmm.
The scent of something delicious carried through the air, a scent that made my stomach rumble. It was the smell of freshly baked bread, the kind my mother used to bake every few days in the morning.
My eyes looked around the room, taking in the worn, familiar furniture, the faded floral curtains, the chipped ceramic vase filled with wildflowers on the small table near the window. It was… my childhood home. But how?
Am I dreaming?
I saw movement in the edges of my vision. I turned my head and saw her. Standing in the doorway that led to the kitchen was my mother. She looked.. Young. Her face was unlined, her dark hair untouched by grey, her eyes bright and full of life. She was wiping her hands on a checkered apron, the one she always wore when she was baking.
Ha.
This couldn't be real. It was a dream, a hallucination, a cruel trick of my dying mind! But. But the smell of baking bread was too real. Too…
"Are you alright, Darian?" she asked, her voice cutting through my thoughts. "You look like you've seen a ghost, darling. You've been staring off into space for a while now."
Her voice sounded exactly as I remembered it, warm and full of gentle concern that always made my chest ache in a good way.
"Mom?" The word escaped my lips before I realised it.
She moved closer. "Yes, dear? Are you not feeling good? You're a little pale."
Then, she did something that destroyed any lingering doubt in my mind that this was just a cruel figment of my dying mind. She reached out and gently patted my head, her hand was warm and solid against my black hair.
The sensation was shocking. I could feel her.
Mom.
The gentle pressure of her fingers, the warmth radiating from her pale skin, the faint, familiar scent of lilac that always clung to her like a second skin. It was too real. Too vivid. Too… everything a dream could never be.
Real. This was real.
I pushed myslef up from the worn, comfortable sofa, my legs were surprisingly steady beneath me, albeit short. No ache. No weakness. Good. The lightness I had felt when I first woke was still there. It was… unsettling, in the most wonderful way possible.
"What day is it?" I asked, the question tumbling out before I could even think it through. It was ridiculous to ask, I knew, but I had to know. I needed to anchor myself to some semblance of reality, even if that reality was impossible.
My mother looked at me as though I had grown a second head, which, given the circumstances was probably a fair reaction.
"Tuesday," she replied with a hint of amusement. "Have you forgotten already? You're acting a little weird today. Weren't you supposed to go with your friends to the fields and play?"
"No, I meant what's the date, mom?" I pressed, trying to keep the facade of calm in my voice.
She chuckled, shaking her head as if I were a particularly dimwitted child. "It's the 15th of June, Darian. Honestly, what's gotten into you?"
June 15th. The day it all began. The day my life changed. The day fire chose me.
My breath caught in my throat. A memory flooded my mind. The dusty road outside our village, the sun beating down from a cloudless sky… Elias, Clara, and me, walking home from a day of exploring in the woods. The sudden, searing heat that had bloomed in my chest, the uncontrollable flames that had erupted from my hands, the sheer terror and awe I had felt.
It couldn't be. Could it?
Was this… was this a second chance? A change to rewrite mistakes, to avoid the path I chose that led me to ruin? Or was this all just a cruel, elaborate torment, a way for the universe to mock me before I finally faded away.
If so, why would the universe even to do that?
"I'm going out to see Elias and Clara," I stammered, backing away from my mother, from the impossible reality of her presence, of her actually being there in front of me. I needed to think, to process, to try and make sense of all this crap.
Before she could add in another word, I walked out of our home.
Just what was happening?