Oblivion's Throne-Chapter 108: Those damn eyes

He was back in that goddamn apartment. Dim lights flickered overhead, the single-bulb fixture swaying slightly. The walls were yellowed with age and cigarette smoke, stained with something darker in the corners. The air was thick—like a weight pressing down on his chest.

And in the middle of it all, his father sat on the ratty old couch, laughing.

His laugh was the kind that stuck to your skin like grease. It never sounded like amusement—more like something ugly clawing its way out of his throat. There was a woman curled up at his feet, shaking. Orion barely recognized her. Stringy hair, bruises along her arms. His mother.

Just another woman this bastard had decided to break.

He couldn't move. The nightmare wouldn't let him. His younger self stood frozen in the doorway, small, terrified, too weak to do anything but watch. His father leaned forward, gripping his mother's chin roughly, forcing her to look up at him.

"You're mine," the bastard sneered. "You understand that, don't you?"

She didn't answer. Maybe she couldn't. Orion could see the way her hands trembled, the way her breath hitched. His father smiled like a man watching a bird try to fly with broken wings.

Then he noticed Orion.

The smile turned cold. "What the hell are you looking at, boy?"

Orion's throat tightened. His small hands clenched into fists, but they were useless. Everything about him was useless. He wanted to scream at his younger self, wanted to shove the kid forward, make him move—make him do something.

But the dream played out the same way it always did.

His father stood up, towering over him. A shadow against the sickly light. "You're a mistake. Did you know that?" He reached down, gripping Orion's tiny wrist too hard, yanking him forward. Orion felt the bones in his arm groan under the pressure.

His mother let out a sharp breath, but she didn't say anything. She just stared—her eyes wide, haunted.

That was the moment.

The moment she realized what kind of man she had given a child to.

And it broke her.

Orion saw it in her face. The horror. The disgust. Not just at his father. At him too.

Like she was seeing his father's shadow stretching over him.

Like she was realizing that no matter what happened, she'd never be able to look at her son without remembering the man who had ruined her.

The dream twisted. Everything blurred, smeared together like wet paint. The apartment was gone.

Now Orion was older. Taller. Stronger. His father lay slumped in a chair, head lolling slightly, a used syringe on the table beside him.

The bastard was dying.

Orion had made sure of it.

He had switched the dose. Just a little too much. Just enough to make sure the bastard wouldn't wake up again.

The man's breathing was slow, unsteady. His fingers twitched like he was trying to reach for something. Orion sat across from him, watching. He should have felt something—satisfaction, relief, anything. But all he felt was the suffocating weight of it all.

This wasn't justice. It wasn't revenge.

It was just another kind of misery.

The old man's lips moved, barely a whisper. Orion leaned in, his stomach twisting.

His father was smiling. Even now. Even at the end.

"...You're just like me."

The dream shattered.

Orion gasped, his body jerking upright. His skin was slick with sweat. His breathing was uneven, his hands shaking. He looked down at them, flexing his fingers, trying to ground himself in reality.

It was just a dream.

Just a dream.

But his father's voice still clung to the edges of his mind.

"You're just like me."

Orion sat in the cold room, his breath still uneven. His body was here, in the present, but his mind—his mind was still trapped in that damn nightmare. The flickering light. The stale cigarette smoke. The voice that never really left him.

"You're just like me."

He clenched his fists. His nails bit into his palms, grounding him. It was over. The dream was over.

But then—

A flash of hazel brown eyes. A mess of blonde hair.

Juno.

Orion sucked in a breath, his stomach twisting. It wasn't the first time he'd noticed it, but right now, fresh out of that nightmare, it hit him differently. The same hair, the same eyes. The same damn color.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the thought away. It was stupid. It meant nothing.

But for just a second, when he wasn't thinking—when his mind was still raw from the dream—he saw those eyes, and the pit in his stomach threatened to swallow him whole.

His voice came out barely above a whisper, more to himself than anyone else.

"Those damn eyes."

The color of the worst memory of his life. And the best.

He could still see her—his real past, the one before everything went to hell. Before the sickness. Before he became something else.

She was laughing, sunlight catching in her blonde hair, those warm, stupidly kind eyes looking at him like he was someone worth holding onto. Back then, he had let himself believe it. Let himself think there was a future where he could have her, where he could marry her, where he could be happy.

And then the diagnosis came.

It wasn't quick. It wasn't merciful. It was the kind of news that hollowed you out from the inside. The kind that made you look at the people who loved you and see nothing but their pain waiting to happen.

He couldn't do that to her.

So he did the only thing he could. He pushed her away. Cut her out like rotting flesh before she could see what was left of him. Before she could watch him fall apart.

It should have made things easier.

It didn't.

She cried. Begged. Told him she wasn't going anywhere. But he made sure she had no reason to stay. Said things he couldn't take back, words sharpened into knives meant to make her hate him.

It worked.

She left.

And now, every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. The way she looked at him before she walked away. The way she didn't look back.

A part of him wanted to scream at the universe, at whatever cruel joke was being played on him. Another part of him, the one that had learned to swallow grief wanted to hold onto her memory.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling.

Orion let out a shaky breath, pressing his palms against his face. His fingers dug into his temples, trying to ground himself, but the thoughts wouldn't stop circling.

"I never realized I hated her." His voice caught, barely a whisper. He swallowed hard, the words like lead in his throat.

The moment it left his lips, it felt real. Too real. His stomach twisted, something between nausea and guilt curling deep inside his chest.

He let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair, gripping it tight enough to sting.

"God, I'm a mess."

Why the hell did he still carry this with him? Why does it hurt? Why does some part of him still care?

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