The boy was running.
Everything was holding him back: the harsh environments, his tiresome body, and even his pessimistic mind. Like a child clinging on to his mother, however, his soul would not be deterred, pulling its master against the endless mounts of setbacks, the rush of downstream traffic, and all other odds in a crazed yet consistently focused goal towards the ever-golden future. Urging him forward, too, was the hard truth that his past – vague memories of clawed evils, fallen leaves and broken hearts – was right behind and would, like a crocodile seizing a moose, seize any and every opportunity to catch up, though none would come. The boy would make sure of that. So would Drake, a boisterous spectator in the match that he somehow gathered would decide the fate of the boy's life. You can do this, he would yell, meaning every word. Just a little bit more. Whether or not the boy could hear him in the first place could, of course, make a lot of difference, but Drake wouldn't let that bother him as he cheered his heart out, egging the boy on in the final push of destiny.
Heatran cast a worried glance at its owner, who had not woken up even after the bumpy right to the hospital. The only sign, in fact, that Drake was alive, was the fact that he was whimpering softly, a sign of unspeakable terror in his sleep. And seeing him in pain, even if reassured that he was not dead, was torture of almost unbearable standards. It could only sit and watch, its anxiety growing larger every second as it prayed for time to be merciful, and watched almost pedantically for any sign of movement on its owner's face. The lady accompanying the pair in the ambulance, observing this, gave Heatran a sweet, understanding smile, which it acknowledged politely with a subtle nod, and nothing else.
The boy could see his destination, but it looked ridiculously, impossibly far away – an unmoving, taunting figure in the distance. His body was so weary that he felt as though he were on a hamster wheel, forced to run on a neverending track that merely allowed him to remain in the same position. More than ever, however, he felt like throwing himself to the ground and begging for an easy death. He almost did, in fact – like unplugging a radio, his body had somehow tuned out the thoughts from his stubborn soul, and was overcrowding his brain with negative mindsets that filled him to the brim with hate and anguish. But Drake wouldn't let him go – not after what he'd seen, felt and heard in the perspective of the boy; not after he knew just how much the future meant, only amplified tenfold when contrasted to the all-consuming darkness of the past. There's no chapter in my story, he thought as he gritted his teeth, where someone drowns in the river of no return. And so he grabbed every chance to get the boy's attention, shoving aside his competitors roughly. Come on! Drake shouted, screaming his way to the top of the boy's mind. Don't give up now! Think about what you've been working for, and concentrate on that alone. The boy responded, clinging on to Drake's message like a wilting plant exposed to sunlight, though Drake hardly noticed this miracle; so focused was he on encouraging the boy when he needed it most that he would not give the subtlest thought on anything else. You can do this. I know you can. There was silence, but Drake had the strong impression that his words had taken root in the boy's mind. He'd just needed to water them a little more…
Abruptly, Drake felt himself fading away. It was an unnerving experience not unlike falling asleep, the only difference being that he could not see his body, though he knew he was in a comfortable position. Perhaps too comfortable; if the moment hadn't been so urgent, Drake would hardly have minded the pleasant sensation of the pervasive mist covering his thoughts, soothing every corner with a soft touch. But helping this boy realise his dream was a now-or-never situation, not something he could return to after he woke up. Realising this fact in time, Drake hurriedly mustered the last of his rapidly decreasing strength to pull himself into a sitting position, rub his eyes and stretch – anything he could do to stay awake. This seemed to work at first, successfully pumping energy to every limb on his body and retaining their activeness. But the waves only crashed harder, and no matter how hard he fought the urge to blank out, he could not stop his head from lolling to the side, or resist even the familiar pull of his eyelids, until, before he knew it, all life within his mental state had gone. He was unconscious, on the path between two worlds.
"No!" Drake yelled frantically as soon as he had been pulled back into reality, surprising Heatran and the nurses who had come to attend to his seemingly fatal health. But no amount of wishing would get him back; there was only the bitter truth, and nothing else. Focused only on the predicament he'd failed to help the boy in the dream with, he barely paid attention to the staff's sarcastic comments or even Heatran's joyful cries as a single thought sped through his mind, darkening his mood to a level beyond recognisable. I was too late.
Heatran noticed this at once, its smile vanishing as it enquired about Drake's situation. All Drake could hear, however, was not Heatran's anxious tone, let alone its fast-paced interrogations, but the traumatising screams of the helpless, panicking boy as it was swallowed whole by the dark matter chasing him, ridden of his life when it fell directly into the hands of evil…
Suddenly, the door to his ward was thrown open with an enormous bang, snapping all of Drake's thoughts as if they had been rubber bands stretched beyond their limits. Looking up in mild surprise and weariness, Drake almost didn't see it at first, getting back to his soggy-puddle misery as his mental fogbank once again accumulated. But then, even before he looked up for the second time for confirmation, the recognition had struck him like a bolt of lightning, with logic catching up slowly, like thunder. Slowly but surely, all the clouds in his mind brightened as the storm finally cleared in its entirety, leaving a clear, peaceful sky for the first time in many weeks.
"I'm… sorry," sniffed the boy. He met Drake's eyes with a gaze that indeed displayed sincerity. But Drake had already known he was. He'd known it, in fact, a very long time ago, but hearing that word spoken aloud bravely further elevated Drake's impression of him. At that point, of course, Drake had a few options, one of which involved pretending to be gravely hurt, only taking off his overly stiff armour and forgiving the boy later. But he knew that only creatures like Heatran could take a joke like that, while other, significantly more serious beings would take it to heart. And Drake didn't want to be mean, especially not to anyone who would have enough of a challenge apologising. So he went ahead with an equally powerful smile that communicated, without a single word, his positive attitude towards the ups and downs of their adventures together, along with a deep understanding of the difficult choices the boy had had to make, and above all, happiness right there and then; a smile, in other words, that forgave, with nothing more, and nothing less.