As the leaves started to fall, days became shorter. Thomas walked down the sidewalk, his wife's arm wrapped around his, a baby girl perched on his back, gazing around the street.
After dedicating three decades of his life to football and achieving his goals, Thomas had finally retired from sports. His passion and power had both diminished from what they were in his prime.
But even after living for 35 years, he didn't have any regrets or had blame anyone for anything.
A supportive, beautiful—not in looks, but in heart—wife, a 10-year-old son to whom he had to pass down his techniques, and a two-year-old daughter, still wondering what to do in her life.
They had been living a peaceful life so far, looking forward to what the future held for them.
After reaching the crosswalk, they stood there, waiting for the pedestrian signal.
"I was thinking that we should go on a vacation soon," said the woman, Thomas turned to her wife with a smile.
"Yeah, sure," then he slightly lifted his head, "what do you think about this little princess?"
Thomas kept chatting with his family, smiling, when his ear twitched. In the midst of the noisy surroundings, all sounds seemed to have faded away, time seemed to have slowed down, and the only thing that was clear was a rhythmic sound.
Dab dab
Ray turned his head, and saw a football, bouncing on the pavement.
"Dude, can you give that ball?" Thomas turned to the call; it was a boy from the other side of the street, waving his hand.
Thomas lifted his daughter and placed her on the ground, then she held her mother's hand, "It's been a while," he grinned, staring at the ball.
With his gaze fixed on the ball, he walked, then ran, increasing his pace as he got closer.
He planted his left foot two feet from the ball and swung his right leg forward.
But unlike on the field, his grin faded instead of stretching further. "So this is what happens when your passion dies?" He said, looking at the ground.
"Mr. Unknown, what are you doing?" It was the same boy again. Thomas looked at him, then looked ahead—he had never kicked the ball properly, and it had rolled into the street.
He ran for the ball again, but the grin never reappeared. This time, instead of kicking it directly, he lifted it into the air, four feets above him.
As he looked up at the ball, making sure no mistakes occurred, the boy looked at his face carefully. "Shit, no way," he said, holding his head before a grin appeared on his face. "That's Thomas!"
He then turned around and shouted, "Hey guys, come here, it's—" He turned back to see his idol but remained speechless, his mouth open. The ball had somehow come into his hands, but he still kept staring.
Another boy came running towards him and looked at his agape face. "What happened? Why did you call us?" Following him, a few more boys arrived.
"I saw Thomas," he said slowly, his eyes wide.
"Thomas who?"
"The soccer player. I don't know his surname—it was hard to pronounce, so I forgot."
"Are you serious?" said the other boy, looking at his friend with wide eyes. "Where is he?"
"He…. truck attacked him."
"What?"
"Yes."
Then the other boy looked forward, and ran, following him, other ran, a beeping sound, may be of an ambulance, filled the air.
…
Thomas, whose consciousness had vanished in the blink of an eye, was gradually becoming aware again. He first felt his existence, then saw darkness, then he felt his glutes on a soft object. Sofa? Then a surging light forced him to cover his face, he slowly opened them, then lowered his hands.
He looked around and saw four white walls in four directions, lights falling from the ceiling, covering the room. There didn't seem to be any door or window, two sofas on either side and a dining table in the middle, dividing the whole room.
"Hello? Is anyone here?" Thomas shouted, then murmured while looking around, "What is this place? Where the hell am I?"
He shouted again, with his on the sofa, "If this is one of those prank shows where they trap famous people, make them think they're dead, and throw dumb questions at them—then listen up, I never cheated on my wife!"
"Whoa whoa, calm down."
Thomas spun around at the voice. A man in his 30s, clad in white suit and trousers, a fork in his hand, and an otherworldly energy escaping from both him and his clothing.
Noticing the fork, Thomas looked down. Thomas glanced over the table, and as far as it stretched, it was chicken cuisine.
Roast chicken, fried chicken, rotisserie chicken, and more…
"That's… chickens," Thomas said, dumbfounded by the sight before him.
"You want some?" the random guy said, passing a dish whose name was even unknown to Thomas.
"Pu… put him down, stay that from me," he staggered, jumping onto the sofa, pointing at the chicken, closer to the wall. "Seriously? What are you? A chicken addict?"
"What are you saying? This isn't what you should say," said the man. That was weird, wasn't it?
Thomas felt strange, as if the chicken addict wasn't even a real person. As if someone was forcing him to talk, someone manipulating him, as if the man… was a marionette.
"That's weird," he muttered, with narrowed eyes.
Then looked up, feeling a greater presence from above. Although he couldn't see anything but the ceiling, he could sense the irritation of someone who was outside the cube, something far more mysterious than the old man… something more than chicken.
"Who is there? Show your face," Thomas shouted, narrowing his eyes.
Someone outside the room—outside the universe, the dimension, existence itself—sat somewhere, maybe on a chair, inside a dark room. The room had nothing special, except it was extremely dark, and a subtle light coming from his front.
An unknown person. Their eyes were covered in the darkness, their mouths showing their expression.
"What the hell is happening? Why isn't he moving according to my will? Is this the side effect of staying awake till midnight, Am I affected by some kind of mental illness? Am I going to die? But I haven't even made my parents proud yet," the being muttered, pressing his temples with both hands.
"I can feel you. You're right there,"
He said pointing at the empty space. "What are you? Where am I?"
Thomas turned to look at the chicken addict. But… there was no one. Not even chickens.
It was only him, in the middle of nowhere.
"What is this place now? Where the fuck am I?" Thomas screamed, spinning around.
"What the fuck are you?" the outer being screamed.
Even though Thomas didn't hear anything normally, felt everything entering his brain directly.
"I should be the one asking all this. Am I having a fucking illusion? But I was always mentally healthy," Thomas said, looking at both of his hands.
"Fuuuuck," the upper being screamed, scratching his face.
The inner being screamed, holding his head, kneeling on the ground.
"Fuuuuuck."
"WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING TO ME?" the outer being screamed, holding the laptop.
"WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?" Thomas screamed, kneeling, hands on ground, lifting his head and chest.
"FUUUUUUUCK."
"FUUUUUUUUCK."
The upper being didn't fucked further, facepalmed, and rubbed his face, then calmed himself. "Breathe in… breathe out….." He removed his hands and tried focusing again.
Thomas, from the middle of nowhere, in an instant, found himself back in the cubic room.
He turned towards the sofa on the other side of the table, not hoping to see the chicken addict.
This time, he was indeed there, with a big, wide mouth, ready to swallow a living chicken.
The chicken's left eye met Thomas's, and they stared at each other in silence until the chicken crowed.
"FUUUUUUUUU…."
"FUU—"
From the world of outer being, his door smashed open, subtle light from outside came in, and in that light stood a human, "SHUT THE FISH UP."
The being looked back, ignoring Thomas's fuck.
"What The Heck Is Wrong With You Stop Cursing, Let Everyone Sleep, Or We Will Kick You Out," she slammed the door back before leaving.
Thomas, noticing that the other person had quieted down, stayed silent for a few seconds, blinked twice, then tried sensing the other guy's presence. "...Fuck?"
The word hung in silence.
After a minute of waiting, a weird smile appeared on his face. "Haha… I won. Yeah, I won the fuck battle! Zuuuuuui!" Thomas celebrated his victory, striking his signature pose.
He kept celebrating, screaming, then put his hand to the back of his ear, hoping to hear the audience—but the silence answered.