Head Hunt (Daracka Volume I)

Eight ✧ A Cruel Lie

CONTENT WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS THEMES OF FAMILY LOSS WHICH MAY BE UPSETTING FOR SOME READERS.

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Jiro sat on the bamboo floor outside his mother's bedroom, hugging his knees.

He suspected his mother had been feeling unwell for some time, but she had never fainted before. Seeing her collapse frightened him, and his mind wouldn't ease.

It's alright, he told himself. It could just be the heat of the day.

The door to the bedroom creaked open, and Jiro clambered to his feet. He peeked inside the room where he saw his mother propped up on a banig. She was conscious, and the glimpse of her gave him relief—the heavy rock in his heart had lifted.

A healer in a zarok vest stepped out of the room. "Jiro," he said, giving him a grim look. "Your mother is sick."

Jiro turned to the healer. "Will she be alright?" He tried to sound hopeful.

The practitioner pressed his lips together. "I'm sorry."

Jiro held his breath as he waited for the healer's words. A part of him knew, had always known, that something was wrong. But another part of him dominated with denial, and that same part wasn't ready for confirmation.

"This is the fourth time she collapsed," the healer said.

"No," was Jiro's immediate response. He shook his head and argued. "No, this is the first time."

"You've often been away on your hunts."

A shuddering breath of disbelief escaped from Jiro's lips. "She never told me." All those moments when his mother looked weak and tired, coughing. All those times when she had preferred to rest than eat. All the instances when she needed to sleep for whole days. They came to him now in a flood. He had seen the signs, but he ignored them. "What's wrong with her?"

"It's a sickness I've only seen once before. It's not contagious. It's rare, and the Eskolars have no name for it yet. All I know is that it attacks the lungs, and it's deadly. There is no cure," the healer explained.

Deadly. How could Jiro's mother hide something like this from him? "What can we do?" he asked.

The healer shook his head, regretful. "There's nothing we can do." He paused for a long while and placed his hand on Jiro's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "She's gotten worse. You have to be ready for this."

Jiro stepped back from him. "I don't understand. Ready for what?" His mind ached with denial, and a surge of heat coursed through his chest. "My mother is fine!" He shouted, shoving the healer up on a wall. He couldn't—didn't want to—comprehend what the man told him.

Your mother is sick.

There is no cure.

Jiro balled his hands into fists at the echoing words in his head, ready to throw them at the practitioner.

"Jiro?" Nana Ricka called through the open door. "Come here," she ordered.

It took much strength for Jiro not to hit the practitioner in the face, and he forced himself to enter the bedroom. He paced at the foot of the pallet bed frame.

"Come here." Nana Ricka patted the banig on her side. Sadness hovered over her silver eyes.

"You!" Jiro pointed a furious finger at her. "You never told me!" His breath came in rapid gasps, and his heart twisted. He didn't want to be angry with her, but he was.