I'm hungry.
If it weren't for my stomach twisting itself into a knot and staging a protest, I might've happily drowned in another few hours of oblivion. Not sleep, exactly-more like being comatose with style. And no dreams either, just static. The kind of sleep you fall into when your body forgets what responsibility is.
I climbed out of my rickety bed-the kind you could probably find in a nearby dumpster. Not that I can't afford a better one, but I've grown attached to it. It's become an indispensable part of the room, like a terrible old friend.
I shuffled toward the wooden window across from the bed.
My guess is... 3:00 AM.
I reached for the curtain and pulled it aside. As usual, I was wrong. The blazing sun smacked me in the face. I winced, shielded my eyes, and slammed the curtain shut again.
Ugh. Summer.
And now for the most annoying part: finding my glasses.
I rolled my eyes, taking in my surroundings, my room.
I once lost a laptop charger in this room for two weeks. It was eventually recovered-by luck, of course-under a stack of unused notebooks and one suspiciously dried-out sandwich. My room was more archaeological dig site than a bedroom.
Decluttering never makes it onto my to-do list. Come to think of it, I haven't tidied the place since I bought it. Maybe I'll give it a shot later-if gravity doesn't win again.
For now, it looked like it always does: clothes in one corner, training gear in another, and a pile of books jammed against the wall like they're hiding from me.
I lifted my foot to check what I stepped on. My glasses. Somehow, they weren't broken. Again. Lucky me.
This time, I opened the door and headed to the ground floor. My room was on the second floor.
I first passed by the twins' room, who, as usual, were playing video games. Was buying a video game console a bad choice after all? They noticed me, but they were completely focused on the game.
Wait a second...
"Aren't you supposed to be in scho-"
"Summer vacation." they replied in unison, without even pausing the game
Their voices were so synchronised they could've started a cult, or a boy band. Either way, I didn't like how smug they sounded about it.
"Oh, of course."
Has hunger affected me that much? Or is it because of sleeping for two days in a row? Who knows
I passed by the bathroom, washed my face, and then looked up at the mirror.
Okay, I may not be handsome, but I'm not ugly either. I give myself a solid, reasonable five. I winked at myself, but the mirror didn't return the favour.
My hair looked like it had negotiated peace with gravity and then given up. My shirt was wrinkled in that artistic, slept-in-for-days kind of way. I gave myself a solid five. A generous five, if we're being honest. Aisha would argue I'm more of a "worn-out six with confidence."
And as i reached the ground floor
???: "Ah, good evening Alan."
The voice came from the kitchen. It was Aisha-my roommate. And no, it's not what you think.
She's in her fifties, with the kind of tired energy you only get from raising twins and managing a household that refuses to stay sane. Her dark hair's starting to grey, though she hides it under a scarf most days. She's not the smartest person in the house-her words, not mine-but she's definitely the one keeping the chaos from turning into a disaster. Without her, this place would collapse in a week, maybe less. She's the kind of person who grumbles about everyone else being useless, then turns around and does everything herself anyway.
"Yeah, hi."
"There's some pizza if you're hungry," she said, pointing to a square cardboard box on the living room table.
"Finally! You're a lifesaver."
She smirked and went back to whatever she was doing.
I dropped onto the couch and grabbed a slice. It crunched like gravel. Fantastic.
Aisha: "The pizza is from yesterday, by the way," she added with a grin.
"You're thirty years older than me and still play pranks like a kid."
Aisha scoffed. "Said the one who painted my entire hairbrush green last month."
"That was war. You started it."
Aisha: "I was cleaning your ramen pot."
"With a bleach."
Aisha: "However, this one is your reward for yesterday. The kids called you for dinner for hours. You didn't answer."
"I wasn't awake. Is that enough to clear me, prosecutor?"
Aisha: "Haha. Just wait a bit. Lunch will be ready in half an hour."
"Half an hour? No thanks. I'll eat outside."
I peeled myself off the couch and dragged myself toward the door, which felt miles away. One of the drawbacks of a large house: long, dramatic exits.
I grabbed the bike keys and set off toward the nearest restaurant.
Third Person POV
Alan was slumped under a tree in a public park, a look of contentment and relief on his face. Lunch had probably cost him everything in his wallet, but it had been worth it. Wasteful? Maybe. But when hunger rules, nothing else matters. Not that money was going to be an issue anytime soon.
His eyes followed the people in the park-young and old-strolling through the fresh air and peaceful green spaces.
He tried to guess the flowers. Lilac? Jasmine? Something that reminded him of spring cleaning at his grandmother's house, mixed with the oily scent of French fries. The contradiction was weirdly comforting.
The breeze carried the smell of fried food and flowers he couldn't name. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked half-heartedly, like it was too tired to be mad. For a second, he felt... okay. Then the headache started.
"I think I'll take a quick nap," he muttered.
He leaned back against the tree, stretched out his legs, put his glasses in his right hand, and folded his arms. It seemed like the perfect spot-away from screaming kids and car horns. Sure, there were birds overhead ready to crap on him, bugs crawling up his neck, and grass that was mysteriously wet, but still...
Alan: "Yes, this was a terrible choice. I'll move in five minutes.
Just five minutes with my eyes closed. No more."
Alan's POV
Ouch. My head. What a headache.
And who's poking me? A stick? A bratty kid? Seriously? Can't your parents keep an eye on you?
Whatever. He'll get bored eventually.
But wait. Something is off. My hearing went weird first-like I was underwater. Then the birds' voices vanished. The wind felt... colder. That's when I realised the tree was gone.
Aaaah!
My thoughts shattered as something-definitely a wooden pole-slammed into my head with skull-rattling force.
"Hey! What's your problem?!"
???: "*&^%$#@!"
I fumbled for my glasses and looked up at the voice. I didn't understand a word.
It felt like my brain had tripped down a flight of stairs and then landed in a different century. I was missing the moment-the exact moment-when the world swapped itself out. No swirling portal. No flash of light. Just... swapped.
To say I was confused would be an understatement. My mind scrambled to process my surroundings. The tree I'd been leaning against? Gone-replaced by a stone wall straight out of a medieval blacksmith's shop. The soft grass? Now, dry, cracked dirt, patterned with wheel ruts and hoofprints.
The air was colder. The sky, once clear and bright, was now smothered in thick clouds. The sun barely peeked through.
And everything else? The buildings, the clothes, the distant clang of metal... was that a palace over there?
A crowd had formed around me. Some people whispered. Others tried talking to me-but not in any language I recognised.
I thought of English, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, etc. Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition.
And I speak over twenty languages. I've never been this lost.
The old man who hit me looked pale and sweaty. Maybe he hadn't meant to hit me that hard.
Speaking of which... why is everything so red?
My head throbbed. Hard. I dropped to my knees, strength leaking out of me.
No.
I clenched my jaw and held on to what little consciousness I had left. Passing out here was not a good idea.
Then, a hand rested on my shoulder. Someone placed what felt like a heavy towel-or maybe a cloak-around me.
???: "*&^"
No idea what he said. But... something told me it was okay to rest now.
And with that final thought, I let go-but not before I caught the glint of a sword, and a voice whispering my name.
It wasn't even a whisper. It was more like my name unravelling in the air, syllable by syllable, in a voice I should've recognised but didn't. It echoed not in my ears, but somewhere deeper-below memory, below thought.