Last Summer Whisper

Everything seemed to play in slow motion.

It was a hot summer day. Teri laid his back on the couch, his tunes the hum of an old fan running in the background. He stared through the window, his eyes entranced by chattering dry bamboo leaves bearing different shades of green as they danced under the light and with the wind. Half-open, his lips formed a smile. The floor was dusty and begging to be swept. His pile of clothes was getting bigger, all the more eager to be folded. He still had to cook lunch. There were still unwashed dishes in the sink.

But it was okay. He was currently at the best place. Of course, he had to be in the moment. He sighed as he sank deeper into the comfort of his home.

Then, there came an unfamiliar sound.

Two cars pulled up in front of his home, both with a low thrum he did not recognize. It was followed by a dozen or so footsteps. Teri clicked his tongue. He pointed his gaze at the door as his hand instinctively fished for a plastic shank stuffed in the crevice of his couch.

Teri chuckled as he entertained the thought of welcoming them. They had balls. Though they could also be batshit insane if they thought that going after him in the middle of the day was a good idea. Teri picked himself up without a hint of thought. Maybe it was one of those days where he felt like he had to give in to his curiosity. He still had to give the bastards a proper welcome, after all. He tossed the shank away, put on a green shirt, and approached the door.

Peeking through a nearby window, Teri was able to identify that they were indeed his men. That explained how they managed to get to his small house in the middle of his territory with little to no trouble. They were looking oddly fresh, however. Too fresh. The cars were still there, engines still running.

Four approached his home, four of his best friends, four of the six pillars of his crew. The one in the front, a large man who fashioned a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses, was carrying a large plastic bag. They must have decided to give him a visit to deliver some shitty news about the bitches trying to take over his turf downtown; the bag could be a tribute—lunch.

Teri opened the door, again without a hint of thought. He welcomed his friends with a big, bright smile. He went as far as to wave his hands, hoping that it would shoo the tension away, but it didn’t work. They met his cheerfulness with their usual look of fear, barely meeting his gaze as they approached him like they had a bomb strapped to their backs.

After watching them take a few more steps, Teri realized that opening his door was a bad idea.

They went through the usual greetings, some awkward hellos. Taro, the man with the glasses, handed Teri the plastic bag.

Teri opened it.

The bag had some bread and other snacks, some of which were his favorites. Though the gift that stood out the most was a hammer and a kitchen knife. Teri chuckled. He lifted his face, smiling and holding back the urge to ask if they stole it from a grandpa on his way home from a hardware store. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Masato, one of his best friends, came out of Taro’s shadow and bashed Teri’s head with a rock.

The wind blew.

The bamboo leaves chattered once more.

Teri took a step back, forcing himself not to fall. He became aware of his own breathing as his vision dropped over and over, as if fixated on the floor. Pain tore through his skull. But he was used to it. He had to recover. He would die otherwise. It was that simple. He raised his face with a bloodied smile. A good hit like that deserved to be answered.

Most of what Teri could see on the left side of his vision was gone. But he refused to be stopped. He raised his left hand, originally wanting to use it to gauge the distance between him and Masato, but it luckily found itself gripping his shoulder.

The man shivered at his touch. Teri would’ve punched him straight in the face, but Taro caught his right fist and replied by sinking a kitchen knife into his gut. Teri tried to pull his fist back. Taro refused to let go and drove the knife into Teri’s body three more times, with each stab digging deeper than the last.

Teri coughed a mouthful of blood. His vision blurred. He let go of Masato. Taro buried the knife into his stomach once more. This time, the blade cut through his skin, shredded his intestines, and went out of his lower back.

If Teri could be proud of something, anything at all, it would be his unnatural sense of when to call it quits. Without it, he would fight—much to everyone’s surprise—until his last breath, and usually he would win. Teri took a shallow breath. That was the reason why at this moment, he could tell that it was it.

A chuckle escaped from Teri’s lips.

With the last bit of his strength, Teri propped up his left arm and loosely gripped Taro’s collar. Slowly, he tilted his head upward, forcing himself to meet his killer’s gaze.

Beneath the gold-rimmed glasses was a pair of eyes still strained and darkened with fear.

Teri’s grasp trembled. “What the… fuck…”

The wind blew.

The bamboo leaves chattered once more.

The old fan continued to hum.

Moments passed by his eyes—of Masato, Taro, and the rest of his friends. They were memories from when they were children. The time when they had to go through sacks upon sacks of trash either for their next meal or to get the money for their next meal. The first time Teri held someone at knifepoint in another city so he could treat his friends to a local fast food restaurant. The time where he fought alongside Masato and Taro against a bunch of grownups to save a couple of child beggars from being kidnapped. The time when he, along with his friends, overthrew a local gang so they could make an abandoned building their homebase, the best place. It was fun.

Tears welled up in Teri’s widened eyes. “At least…” He coughed another mouthful of blood, possibly his last. “Then, at least… smile. Make it look like you’re winning. You… idiots.”

Taro pulled the knife and drove it deep into his skull, turning everything black.

But it was as though he simply blinked, Teri found himself in another place.

Teri was in a white room, ever-expanding and devoid of the concept of walls.

His first instinct was to fill his lungs with air, making him realize that he didn’t have a mouth. He almost choked, remembering at the last second that he could use his nose. He was standing. He felt fine, too. So, he set his mind next to check his body. Then, he learned that he couldn’t move, that there was a gaping hole in his chest, and his hands were cradling a large black beating heart. In front of him was a moth-like humanoid, pinned to its own pool of dark purple blood with ten jet-black swords—one for each of its four arms, two for its wings, two for its legs, one for its head, and one for its chest.

Then, a growing presence approached Teri from behind, wrapping him with something burning and unseen, particularly around his limbs and neck.

It whispered.

But he couldn’t understand. So this presence wrapped itself tighter around him. Teri’s nose started bleeding, and the softness of its voice suddenly contained a semblance of meaning.

It forced its thoughts into Teri’s head. It told him that he was taken upon his death. It told him that he was not it. It told him that he would be in a labyrinth—a dungeon—and if he cleared its ten floors, he would be granted a wish.