When Mike got hit in the face, his thoughts emphasized the pain. Why? Why me? These thoughts kept repeating in Mike's head. But when the thoughts faded, it was already over—the punch was over. The four bullies who beat Mike daily stood over the lying Mike. They searched his pockets, but Mike started to grin and laugh quietly. The bully who was searching Mike's pockets looked up from Mike's laughter.
"What are you laughing at?
„Check the backpack…"
Mike pointed to the backpack lying beside him. But the bully standing next to Mike kicked Mike in the face so hard that blood poured from his nose like a waterfall.
"Check for yourself, and no matter what's inside, hand it over nicely."
The bully kicked Mike again in the stomach. Mike curled up on the floor, but the yelling to make him check again forced Mike to crawl back to the floor. However, the grin didn't disappear from Mike's lips. Mike crawled to the backpack and opened it. The bullies' eyes fixed on the backpack. Suddenly, Mike pulled out a sharp object—it was a knife. The handle was brown, and the blade so clear that Mike's bloody face was reflected in it. Mike held it in his hand, stood up, and waved it around.
"Get lost! Let's finish this bastard properly! I warn you—go now and leave me alone."
Mike held the knife firmly, ready to stab. A bully stepped towards Mike and grabbed him by the neck.
"Now you'll see—"
Mike stabbed the knife into his belly. As the blood sprayed, some splattered onto Mike's cheeks and eyes, but Mike couldn't hide his smile. He stabbed right through the bully—he was dead instantly. The blood pool beneath Mike and the dead bully grew bigger every second. Mike spoke with a broad smile on his face,
"No one will come to save you because you picked this alley perfectly to exploit and beat me up, right?"
But the three other bullies still stood exactly like two minutes ago—they hadn't moved a step back. They looked at each other for a moment and then nodded oddly. Then one bully pulled out a gun.
"You still wanna stab us, huh? You psycho, you killed him."
The bully with the gun stepped closer to Mike. The lifeless body of the stabbed bully lay on the floor. The bully with the pistol reloaded and, ready to shoot, pressed the gun against Mike's neck. Then he whispered,
"No, no, no—we won't kill you. We'll turn you in to the police, you sick psycho—"
Again, warm liquid splattered on Mike's face. He had slit the bully's throat and taken the gun from his hand. But Mike's vision blurred briefly—he couldn't see anything no matter how hard he tried. After a second, his sight improved. But when Mike raised his hand, both the gun and the knife were gone. Mike looked around in shock and realized that the bullies and the lifeless bodies were gone too, along with the blood on his hands.
"What the hell?" Mike said to himself, looking around. But he noticed the area dissolving more and more until Mike woke up with a start.
It was dark, but Mike knew where he was—my room? Just a dream. Mike sat up and stayed on the edge of the bed, breathing deeply. When he saw his phone on the desk in his room, he went over, took it in his hand, and turned it on. As he lifted his phone, the floor beneath Mike softened, and he fell through the floor into a dark hole. It seemed endless—at least the end wasn't visible. After a few seconds, Mike blinked once and woke up on his bedroom floor. He lay in the middle of his room, his glowing phone beside him. The time was 2:22 AM. Mike turned his gaze away from his phone and stared at the ceiling.
"What the hell is happening?"
As Mike tried to get up, unbearable pain shot through his head and right hand. Mike fell to the floor again. He gathered himself and grabbed his head with his left hand.
"What's going on!? First this dream, then the hole, now this pain!"
The pain lingered for a few seconds. Mike thought it was getting less, but the pain in his hand disappeared. Mike sat up and lifted his head. He tilted it to the right, noticing it was getting dimmer. He tilted it to the left, and suddenly the pain faded more and more until it disappeared completely.
Mike let his heavy head fall and lay on the floor. He relaxed his hands and breathed in and out. When he got up again and went to his bed, a certain object lay there—the blood-covered knife. It seemed to smile at Mike.
The knife lay bloodstained on Mike's bed. The blood ran onto Mike's pillow and dripped down from the bed. Mike recoiled. He wanted to get out of here and simply leave this room. Panicked, he went to the doorknob and tried to open the door, but the handle fell off and the door remained closed. Even more panicked, Mike made a big leap toward the window, but as he reached to pull aside the curtains, the floor beneath his feet softened again and he fell. Yet, after a few seconds, he landed back on the floor. He forgot that he wanted to open the window. He went to the bed, carefully, afraid of falling into that strange hole again. He moved very slowly. He looked around the room and noticed that there seemed to be no hole visible.
Am I dreaming again?
Or am I teleporting?
Mike reached the bed and saw the bloody knife. Suddenly, he felt the urge to take it in his hand. He reached for the knife and lifted it from the pillow. As he looked at the knife, he saw a smiling smiley made of blood. He wanted to drop it again but couldn't move. Mike was frozen, like petrified. He saw shadows in the corner of his eyes. He wanted to scream, to wake his mother, but he couldn't do that either. The shadows in his peripheral vision grew, and whispering began. After one minute, it became quiet. The shadows disappeared, as did the whispering. Mike heard only one voice — his own. But Mike's mouth didn't move. The voice came from behind him and said,
"You are it."
As the words finished, Mike fell again into the abyss.