"You decided to join me this early, Tim." The soft feminine voice said to him.
He closed his eyes, muttering words repeatedly. "This is not real; this is not real. She's not real; I'm just dreaming."
The voice whispered in his ears, saying. "Not saying anything to me doesn't mean you didn't miss me."
She took her hands off him, walking right to his front. Her face could not be seen; she stood staring down at him, then he dropped to his legs, sitting on his thighs, placing her hands to his cheeks. "You might not think I'm real, but we both know you want me here."
Timothy said to himself. "I see now I've completely lost it. Why would my dead girlfriend be the one person I'd want to see after getting shot by my so-called friend? It can't go on like this. But even then I still have a bit of comfort that she's here.
He raised his head up to look at her; she had no eyes, but his face brought out a smile from her. Timothy rested his back on the ground.
The moment he shut his eyes, he felt no touch from her. He opened his eyes; she was no longer there. The fog had cleared, but darkness zoned the whole place. He lay down, waiting for what was to come next.
As the fog thickened, silence grew heavy—just when he thought that was all, the haunting voices he'd always heard came raging in.
"So you decided to lie here and give it all up, to end it all here."
Timothy replied to the voice lowly. "But isn't that what you all want? You want me gone, dead."
"Of course that's what we want." It said
"Then why are you making a fuss—" He couldn't finish; another voice cut him off.
"You haven't suffered enough." An older male voice spoke.
Timothy muttered. "Oh, I see."
The voices came in numbers, mumbling words that weren't audible at first. But soon, they began to merge—rising together, in unison, they shouted,
"Get up."
Tim didn't even bother to move. The haunting voices raged on, sharper this time.
"So you're not getting up? You said you wanted to right your wrongs—to fix things. But lying here won't do anything, so get the fuck up!"
He gave no reply, only thoughts whispering in his mind.
They curse me for not protecting... now they want me to get up—to get up and kill a friend. I can't... I can't do this.
The voices, in unison, sparked through the area, and in chorus they spoke—their sound was like that of an old boom box hitting its maximum volume.
They shouted, "You fool, how can—"
Unusually, they stopped. Timothy lifted his head a bit, looking to both sides, wondering what caused them to stop talking, but saw nothing. Then came a voice—a tender one, a voice he hadn't heard before, yet it sounded both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.
"You claimed you want to change things and redeem yourself, but you choose to accept defeat—to lie here and do nothing. When push comes to shove, we all want you alive; we want you to fight."
"Fight as in kill?" Tim responded.
The voice replied quickly, "We live in a world where we each have to keep our sanity in check. Hate it or not, this is the only way for you to keep yours. It's kill or be killed."
Timothy sat up, shaking his head. "No, I won't. I just want to stay here and rethink things. I—I can't."
"The ones you hold dear have betrayed you and are about to bring destruction to your home. You can't sit still—you're cutting them off. You have to kill Cecil Edgar."
He heard footsteps. The fog covered the view, but out came the individual—Cecil Edgar.
Timothy's eyes widened; he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
Cecil said, "You have to kill me here, so it won't be harder for you to do it when we meet again."
****
6:45 p.m.
Evening had hit the city. In the office of Commander Layla were the commander herself, Raymond, and Johnathan. They weren't doing much—just sitting and waiting.
Raymond got up, ready to leave the room. "The doctor said in a couple of hours he'd be awake. It's almost seven; I'm going to check on him."
Just then, the elevator doors slid open. With his arms crossed, Timothy Slinger stepped into the room. The atmosphere shifted—worried faces brightened.
Layla formed a smile. "It's good to see you."
He answered, "Likewise, Layla." Turning to Raymond, he added, "I heard you came checking. Thank you."
Raymond responded with a raised eyebrow and a slight head tilt.
"Where are the others?" Timothy asked.
"They were all here but left not long ago," Raymond said.
"Oh, okay," Tim chimed in.
"Where are you going dressed up like that?" Johnathan asked.
Timothy glanced down at himself before replying, "It's nothing special—just a family gathering."
All three looked surprised. Raymond spoke first. "A family gathering, really?"
"Yeah. The Edgar family has this Thanksgiving they do every month, so I have to attend."
Their reactions dropped. Ponytail—Raymond—responded, "Is it something I should come help with?"
Timothy let out a laugh before answering, "Oh, come on, Raymond. It's a family thing, not an all-you-can-eat buffet. It's something I've been accustomed to, so I have to go pay my respects."
There was no reply from any of them. Timothy turned and walked toward the elevator. It opened, and he stepped inside.
As the doors closed, worry returned to their faces.
Layla spoke first. "He's acting as if all is well."
"Well, he's tough," Raymond said. "He's going to give the Edgars the bombshell that their son is alive. I wonder how that'll go."
"We wait for his return," Johnathan added quietly.
****
7:10 p.m.
Downtown in the city, the streets of Pavilion Estate were quiet. The lampposts lit up one by one as watchmen made their rounds, checking those who went in and out of the gates. Most residents were already home, their warm lights glowing through the windows, brightening the calm neighborhood.
Deep inside the estate stood the humble home of the Edgars—a two-story house with a small garden and a short white wooden fence around it.
Racing down the road came a bike, its tires humming softly against the pavement. It stopped in front of the Edgars' home, and the rider removed his helmet. It was Timothy—his face blank, emotionless.
In his hand was a bouquet of flowers.
He walked up to the front door. From inside came the sound of chatter and laughter. He pressed the doorbell and waited.
A few moments later, footsteps approached.
The door opened—Mrs. Edgar stood there, a polite smile on her face. But the instant she saw him, her smile faltered, looking forced for a second before she reassessed herself and spoke.
"Good evening, Timothy. I didn't know you were coming."
He smiled graciously. "Sorry I didn't call, but you know I wouldn't miss it for the world."
He bowed his head slightly. "Happy Thanksgiving."