Page 118 of Florescentia

I turned onto my back and groaned.

Daydreaming wasn’t a sufficiently strong distraction.

The sting of my palm bothered me enough to look at it. Cuts from the long grass and thrashing through these fictitious woods for at least a day. It was interesting how this world could manifest so many creatures and visuals, yet I could still hurt myself on them.

Unless . . . I’d only hurt myself because that was what was expected of the wilderness.

I closed my eyes.

Focus.

I imagined my hand without wounds, the dark skin against pale markings, the way I remembered the creases on my palms or the shape of my knuckles. Any image of my hand without blemish. Then I went further, imagining mending wounds, sewing stitches, anything with the intention of closing the cuts.

“This is silly,” I mumbled to myself—then immediately forgot the words when I opened my eyes.

My hand was blemish-free. I couldn’t even remember the sting of the cuts. They were simply gone—or did they not exist in the first place?

Could I do the same for my hunger?

My stomach pinched.

No, it didn’t seem so.

My senses even began to tease me with the scent of dry-season apples and citrus blooms. The audible memory of a crisp bite into fruit, or the slurp of juice that followed, whispered in my ear like a temptation.

My stomach would turn over and flip into a knot if my mind continued the charades.

There would be no sleep in a condition like this.

With restless mind and feet, I set off. I took my satchel with the grimoire—I had no way of telling if I could find my way back to an exact spot, knowing how this place played tricks on vulnerable minds. Keeping sharp was my only defense.

The stars above soon disappeared among canopies of pointed leaves and creaking branches. The dirt poked at my bare feet; they were numb by now. My throat was dry again, left unsatisfied from the last swallow.

From within the wood, a light.

Only a steady pulse interrupted by the silhouette of proud trunks.

Just off the path, that was it.

As I neared the apparition, a whimsical sight unfolded like a dream.

At first the glow was bright, then a long table came into view, not unlike those in old English mansions. Impossibly intricate and out of place in the middle of nature. Atop its carved surface was a feast of fruits.

Some were familiar: ripe apples, firm grapes, and plump oranges. Some were less familiar, with hexagonal scales and fibrous hairs on the insides of the cut fruit. As I picked one from the pile, it felt real too.

I half believed the feast on the table was the real thing. In more fantastical stories, such a temptation would come with great cost. The fruit was so lifelike, believably tangible. My stomach whined like a begging dog.

“Are you not hungry?” Altair’s taunt in my ear.

I did not look. The fruit was placed neatly back at the head of the table. “You must think me a simple thing if this is a snare.”

“You are paranoid,” he said. “How could such a kind gesture be anything but?”

I turned around, facing the beastly phantom. With steady palms, I pressed them on the edge of the table. “There is nothing you do that isn’t self-serving.”

“You know that isn’t true,” the shadow said, leaning in. “I take an interest in your well-being.”

“In my belonging,” I said. “You do not care if I am well, just that I am kept.”