Ulah stumbled out of the outdoor bathroom, body twisting with pain. A savage thirst also scraped at his throat.
He was starving. It felt as though something was moving in his stomach.
He lifted his shirt and examined his stomach. Faint scars from childhood falls crossed his dark skin, but nothing else seemed unusual.
The sensation persisted, sliding beneath his ribs.
He wondered if it had been the bread roll, or if he had eaten something bad.
“Mommy…” he called weakly. Even speaking was painful.
He staggered toward the house. Each step was slow and unsteady, like an old man's.
The bathroom stood only two meters behind the house, yet the distance felt far longer.
His feet dragged through tall, uncut grass. It was longer than usual. He wondered if his mother had forgotten to cut it. She always used a machete. He could picture her gripping a handful of grass and slicing it cleanly, again and again.
His foot struck something small and hard, a wooden toy pyramid.
He recognized it immediately. It resembled a pyramid communicator. He stepped past it, thinking that once his stomach stopped hurting, he would ask Mister Paul if it belonged to Jenny. The man had made one just like it for her.
He found himself hoping Paul would make one for him too.
Then he hesitated, remembering the last time he asked.
“Tell your father to give me my damn money!” Paul had shouted.
Ulah believed his father had hired the man to build a cabinet, yet never paid him. It never made sense. His father usually built everything himself, so why ask for a cabinet?
The memory was clear. Paul had stormed into the yard with a machete, demanding payment.
Natasha had said nothing. She never did when drama unfolded. Her face stayed blank and unreadable.
Ulah now felt dizzy. The hunger pains were getting worse by the second.
His mother had said she didn't bring back any fish, but he suspected that was a lie. Maybe she had preserved some for tomorrow.
He would've eaten or drunk anything.
He reached the back of the house and slumped against it. With what little strength he had left, he forced himself along the side, dragging his feet toward the front.
“Mom…”
Vernisha drifted in shifting darkness, surrounded by a pulsing, twisting fog that seemed almost alive.
She hated this dream and longed for something better, something like the clear, vivid dreams she once had on Earth.
She had been about twenty-one when she died on Earth, when she had taken her own life.
She could imagine how her family and old friends must have reacted. They probably insisted it could not be true and questioned why, since nothing in her life had seemed obviously wrong.
The irony.
There had been nothing to look forward to, not even simple interactions. Life had become a chain of fading connections.
In high school, she had been close with her friends and excited at the idea of attending the same college. Different majors changed that. They never shared classes, and without overlap, their WhatsApp conversations slowed, then died.
Friends became acquaintances. Acquaintances became strangers.
Making new friends was the obvious answer, yet she had no drive. She hated studying economics, and that resentment bled into everything about that college.
When a class ended, she moved on. When all classes were done, she left campus quickly.
She would take a taxi home, toss her clothes onto the living room couch, sometimes glance at the stubborn watermelon-flavored Kool-Aid stain on the armrest, then collapse onto her bed, sweaty and indifferent.
She would turn on the AC, take a nap, wake up to do assignments, scroll TikTok until boredom set in, switch to Webtoon to read favorite series, and feel nothing. She checked Royal Road, Ronobes, or pirate novel sites, only to realize she lacked the energy to read.
She tried watching Invincible, then gave up. A random anime, then gave up. She rewatched nostalgic series like Adventure Time or Teen Titans, but nothing held her attention.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Nothing brought joy. Nothing sparked excitement.
Even food she once loved tasted bland, and her favorite YouTuber, MoistCr1TiKaL, seemed dull.
She had no desire for anything.
At first, she thought it was a bad day. The feeling lingered for weeks, then months. She could see no reason to keep going.
So she overdosed on painkillers.
She opened the bottle, poured pills into her hand, and stared. Anxiety rose as she tried to talk herself out of it, but she gave in. She swallowed the pills and lay on her bed, waiting for her breath to slow and her heart to falter.
Unconsciousness followed, then cardiac arrest.
It had felt like a pathetic way to go, but somehow she had reincarnated as a baby in a fantasy world.
She did not believe in random luck, yet she did not care enough to question it.
The dream finally faded. The shifting darkness dissolved, and she woke.
She stared upward. She could not see the ceiling in the dark, but she knew she faced it.
Her stomach hurt.
She sat up, but the pain surged and forced her still. It felt like being kicked from the inside.
She paused and looked around. “Ulah?”
She did not want to use her healing skill only to find he was secretly awake and watching.
There was no response. If he were there, he slept deeply.
She lightly kicked behind her, where he usually slept. He once believed that if a monster snuck in, sleeping behind her would let him escape while she got eaten first. The thought struck her as cruel, though she had found it funny when he explained.
She moved through the darkness, reaching for his blanket. It was dry, not damp with sweat or anything worse. But he was not there.
The stomach pain worsened. She wondered briefly if joking about not having her period had somehow brought this on.
The idea of dealing with cramps again seemed like a punishment from divinity. Back on Earth, the cramps had been so severe she always needed painkillers.
She coated her left hand with the red healing aura and pressed it against her lower abdomen. The faint glow flickered in the room, like a firefly struggling in vast darkness. The pain did not fade quickly; it lingered for long minutes before it started dulling.
The source was not natural.
Years ago, Vernisha had tested this power. She had learned that while it aided recovery, it did nothing to stop muscle contractions unless those contractions came from damage or some internal malfunction.
She left the bedroom and headed toward the kitchen. The wooden floor creaked under her steps.
She stepped on pencils and notebooks Ulah had left scattered across the floor. The room was dark, but she navigated by memory.
Five decent wooden chairs filled the main room. One rested against the right wall of the living room, another against the left wall. The other three were usually near the table.
Her shin slammed into a table leg.
She hissed and ran her fingers over the table runner. It was once green.
A merchant from Laskdar City had brought it while selling old junk. Caren bought it for only two bronze pints.
That was a bronze pint less than the cost of a hamburger from Sundawn.
Vernisha used the table as a guide and moved toward the kitchen. The woven, oil-treated basket near the edge marked her destination.
She stretched upward and felt the face of the small cabinet mounted above the dishware basket.
Her fingers traced the wood until they found the knob at the center. She pulled. The cabinet door creaked open.
She reached for the top shelf, searching for a small airtight wooden bottle filled with grated Hula fruit, dried for preservation.
She unscrewed the cap, and poured a small amount into her palm and tossed it into her mouth.
Gross.
The bitterness hit instantly. Her stomach twisted and she forced herself to swallow it.
Vernisha suppressed the urge to gag. Then she coughed harshly, spraying flecks of spittle.
That bread had definitely been bad. Either someone had poisoned it or it had been made from rotten ingredients.
She could only hope her portion had been the only spoiled one.
A creak cut through the silence. A door opened. She turned, listening. Footsteps followed.
Someone heading to the washroom?
She reached for the blu-dust on the second shelf. It rested on a small metal plate, and she carefully held the plate’s edge to keep it steady.
She spat onto the blue sand. It reacted instantly, sizzling like water on hot oil. Sparks flickered. A small but steady blue flame flared to life.
Dim light stretched shadows across the room, twisting them into long, warped figures. In that glow, she saw who had entered.
Ulah.
He was hunched over, clutching his stomach, groaning.
“Your stomach hurts too?” Vernisha asked, grabbing the Hula container and stepping toward him.
His voice was weak. “Who’s that? Vernisha?”
“Yeah. I think the bread was spoiled. My stomach felt awful too.”
She paused. Hula never went well with him. He did not just spit it out. He threw up.
“Give me a second.” She turned toward the fruit basket at the center of the dinner table. Her fingers found the largest pink-terra, half-ripe, pink, wrinkled like an old apple.
There were other fruits, moonpaes and C-shaped grapes with a watermelon-cherry taste, but those would not help.
“What are you doing?” Ulah asked, voice tight with pain.
“Getting something to make you feel better.”
He went quiet, then groaned. “I’m hungry… and thirsty.”
“I know. You’ll get something to eat soon.”
That was not true, but she said it anyway.
She steadied the dried Hula container in her armpit and split the pink-terra in two as she walked toward him.
White juice streamed down her fingers and dripped onto the floor.
She scooped a thumbnail-sized amount of grated Hula and pressed it between the halves before closing the fruit.
“Eat this. It’ll help.”
Ulah snatched it and devoured it without hesitation.
Strange. He usually asked why it was already split open, or at least complained.
Pink-terra was his favorite, mostly because he liked being different. He always bragged that others hated it while he thought it was good.
Its bitterness masked other flavors well, which made it perfect for hiding medicine.
Another voice broke the quiet.
“Why are you two up?” Natasha asked.
She and Caren usually slept in the living room.
Vernisha turned slightly. “Ulah’s feeling sick, so I was just…”
“I’m hungry…” Ulah croaked, his voice rough, like someone with a torn throat.
“Eat that first. I’ll get you something else.”
Another lie. There was nothing left except vegetables and fruit.
Natasha stepped closer. “Since when is he hungry at night?” She looked at him. “Didn’t you eat all your lunch?”
Ulah clutched his stomach and squatted, shaking. “I’m hungry. I’m hungry…”
“Hey, hey.” Vernisha rubbed his back, trying to calm him. “You’ll get something soon.”
“Oh…”
“Yeah. Just wait a little.”
He went still for a moment. Then he grabbed her left arm and stared at it.
“What is it? You like my fingernail paintings?” she asked. He had painted them one boring afternoon.
He did not answer. Instead, he bit down with all of his might, drawing blood.
