Sol stands up, backing away from his mother's corpse. He vomits on the ground before running back up to her, shaking her head repeatedly.

  "Mom! Mom! Wake up! Mom!"

  He shakes even more while screaming, "NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!"

  Smashing through the door, he runs to the dining room. His father—a scarlet, putrid mush for a head—lies rigid on top of a table split in half. Blood coats the corner of a chair.

  Realising for certain now the monstrosity he had performed.

  He dreaded the sight that awaited him in his bedroom.

  He calls out, in a delusional hope, grasping at any possible thread: "RELL, LEA!"

  No reply.

  He doesn't dare to look.

  He stops himself from thinking anymore and runs out of the house. On his bare feet, he arrives at the river, washing off whatever blood he can reach before following it downstream.

  He could not—and did not want to—face his reality.

  He didn't believe it.

  Perhaps it was a vision, among the thousands upon thousands of unpleasant and vivid ones he had experienced in such a short time.

  It could only be.

  Sol walked for hours upon hours, until the sun rose and fell again.

  He collapses at the edge of the river, cupping water in his hands and gulping it as his throat spasms from the pain of thirst. He looks into his reflection, only now noticing his eyes—bloodshot red, like a red pool ball. His soul jumps, but his body doesn't react. He looks deeper into his eyes before noticing the book.

  The strange book from the strange ritual, which he could only presume—due to the eye symbol and his father's reaction—was the cause of this tragedy.

  He lifts it out of the water. The eye is still looking straight ahead, into Sol's soul, and it sheds a tear upon gazing inside. The caruncle holds a crystal tear protruding as the eye stares directly at him.

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  Accusing him.

  He lifts his hand, intending to punch the eye, before lowering it and covering his mouth, gagging.

  Blink.

  A vision of his mother's face as he rains his fists upon it as it ragdolls—no monstrous hallucinations in this vision, just the monstrous reality of his actions.

  He picks up the book, taking it with him. He didn't know what it did, but his sins were caused even without its presence. Perhaps taking it with him would spare another soul from its curse.

  Sol stumbles through the forest, eating only greenery. He is starving, but he cannot allow himself to perform another act of violence. He picks a flower, licks the nectar, and consumes the whole thing—thorns and all.

  A penance for himself. His own way of avenging his family. Not allowing himself to indulge in any beauty without the price of pain.

  He settles into the shrubbery to rest. He does not allow himself to sleep on the earth; instead, he forces himself into a thorny bush.

  In his dreams, he sees his mother in the distance, a film over his transcendental eyes. The world looks vintage, tinted a pleasant gold.

  She tends the flowers. His father steps out, pipe in hand, watching her from the doorway. The children run out as she turns, embracing them as they giggle. Sol retches. They all turn toward him and look straight through him, as if he were not there.

  His mother, however, walks toward him, still unaware of his presence, placing a black rose at his feet as if mourning a loved one at their grave. Sol reaches for her. He grabs her hand.

  Blink.

  The scene of Sol launching at her again—no hallucinations present, which he now prays for. His mother's face is serene during the attack, and he does not know why.

  He jolts awake in a cold sweat.

  A hallucination. It must be all a hallucination. Yes—how can I trust anything anymore? He tries to rationalise as he sets off again, now running toward his home.

  He arrives after a day of running.

  Their home is still as beautiful as ever. His mother's chair is still stained with blood, but her body is not present. Perhaps she survived?

  Sol is invigorated by this notion, ignoring the fact that it confirms the violence was indeed real—and that he knows his siblings would certainly not have survived.

  Carrion birds perch on the roof, their mouths slick with blood.

  He hears a commotion inside. Someone shuffling about.

  He smiles, wide-eyed.

  He laughs maniacally as he runs inside.

  A man stands atop the corpses of his father, mother, and siblings, appearing to search for something.

  His hair is ashen grey, his face emotionless—an unremarkable fellow. Sol stops in his tracks. The man calmly turns around, noticing the book on Sol's waistband, before walking calmly toward him to retrieve it, as if it were something he had simply dropped on the floor.

  Sol is too traumatised by this disgusting family gathering and the sight of his siblings' pure faces soaked in tears and blood.

  The man grabs the book, in his other hand, a blade. He thrusts it calmly, as if performing a mundane act, toward Sol's throat.

  Sol's bodily faculties are heightened by this malediction's presence, so he dodges without realising. The man is unperturbed and continues toward him, like someone chasing a pet around the house. He launches the knife again. Sol dodges, raising his fist, teeth gritted. He grabs the man's wrist with one hand and launches his other fist.

  Blink.

  A vision.

  Sol among his family's corpses. The book gone. His throat slashed. His eyes missing.