Realm of Thorns

The Bruises Fade, the Pain Remains

Joaquin woke up bruised. Again.

The sting of the blows still lingered under his skin, dull and throbbing in his ribs and arms. He winced as he sat up, the threadbare blanket sliding off him. His small room was stifling, the morning heat already creeping through the cracks in the wooden walls. He could hear the soft, muffled snores of his father from the other room, sprawled out on the old wooden sofa, a half-empty bottle still clutched in his hand.

It had been another bad night.

Joaquin gingerly touched the dark bruise blossoming along his left arm, the skin tender and sore beneath his fingertips. His father's words from the night before echoed in his head, slurred with drink and venom.

"Useless boy... it's your fault she's dead!"

Joaquin closed his eyes, trying to block it out, but the memory of his mother, lying weak and pale in her final days, came rushing back. The fever had consumed her too quickly, and no matter how much he had prayed, no matter how many tears he shed, she had slipped away from him. Her death had left a void in the house—one filled with rage, guilt, and resentment. His father had never forgiven him for it.

He looked toward the faded photo of his mother hanging crookedly on the wall, her smile soft and kind, so different from the world he now lived in. His father's anger had turned their once modest, loving home into a prison of harsh words and violence.

Joaquin knew it was only a matter of time before it happened again. Maybe today. Maybe tonight.

He threw on his tattered jacket and quietly slipped out of the house. The old wooden door creaked loudly, making him pause and glance back. His father stirred but didn't wake. Joaquin released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and quickly stepped out into the warm morning air.

The town of San Lorenzo was already alive with movement. Joaquin walked down the narrow dirt paths, his worn shoes kicking up dust. The town was small and poor, the kind of place where everyone knew each other's business. The houses were simple wooden structures with rusty tin roofs, some patched together with sheets of plastic or old tarps. Laundry lines sagged between the buildings, heavy with faded clothes swaying in the breeze.

Joaquin's stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon. He walked past the local market, where vendors were setting up their stalls, the smell of fresh vegetables, dried fish, and old sweat mingling in the air. Women shouted their prices, their voices competing with the constant clucking of chickens and the occasional grunt of pigs in nearby pens.

He felt the weight of the town's poverty pressing down on him. It wasn't just his house. The whole place felt worn, beaten down by life, the people here scraping by however they could. Sometimes it felt like the entire town was slowly crumbling, like an old memory left to rot under the relentless heat.

As he rounded a corner, he heard a familiar voice.

"Joaquin! Over here!"

He turned to see Marco, his best friend, waving at him from near one of the stalls. Marco had a bright smile, his face still boyish and full of life despite the hard conditions they lived in. He had always been a little taller, a little stronger, and luckier than Joaquin—his family was poor too, but not broken.

Joaquin walked over, his steps heavy but trying to hide the pain. Marco immediately noticed the dark bruise on his arm and frowned.

"Another one?" Marco asked, lowering his voice. There was concern in his eyes, but Joaquin looked away.

"I'm fine," Joaquin mumbled, though they both knew it was a lie. He wasn't fine. Not this time. "What's going on with you?"

Marco's expression softened. "Man, today's the day. The bus leaves in a few hours."