His mouth felt dry, rough. His lips were like those pages from those old books, ever so slightly stuck together. As his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room and his awareness over his body returned, together with all of its soreness and numbing pain, he sighed. His still weak from slumber hands moved up to his face to clean his burning eyes from the crumbling rheum that had collected in them overnight.

Today was not going to be that enjoyable, he had gathered that much.

He lay there, in his bed, fully expecting *him* to come in any minute with the breakfast that had been prepared just for himself. He hoped that he would bring him water as well this time around. He slowly sat up, almost feeling strange without the peaking sunlight that used to sneak into his old room through those maroon curtains, the ones that used to belong to his father. As he felt a pain shoot through his legs, he winced and closed his eyes, his jaw tensing up and his hands digging into his bedding.

And so he remembered his dream.

He was in the garden of his father’s mansion, on a warm spring evening, watching the sky slowly blend away into shades of pink and orange, like watercolour that had not yet dried on the paper. He walked around what seemed like an endless labyrinth of white chrysanthemums, stopping at one that he found particularly perfect. He placed both of his hands under the blossom and admired its beauty, counting its many petals one by one. He picked it off, caring more about witnessing its beauty than of its life. He walked for what seemed like an eternity, but he didn’t get tired. He was free, yet in a labyrinth. Lost, but sincerely satisfied. And that’s when he woke up.

As much as he hated to admit it, he always felt powerless. He always felt vulnerable. He had his freedom taken away before he even had the chance to spread his wings out and fly away. He moved the blanket away from him and gently placed his hands on the now long gone scars that tainted his thighs.

Oh, what he would give to have them back.