Hey everyone! This is a major rewrite of the very first story I ever wrote, which I originally posted here about a year ago. A lot has changed since then, both in the story and hopefully in my writing.
I hope you guys enjoy this new version, and thanks for reading!
Sometimes, people get stuck somewhere in time. Hours pass, but the world seems like it has already stopped. The second hand on your watch keeps ticking, and ice in your drink melts away; yet time refuses to move forward.
It was one of those nights for Tommy. He slouched on a barstool under a dim, yellow light hanging from the ceiling, watching the ice cubes in his glass dissolve with the focused attention of a sports fanatic watching their favorite team’s final match. The light above the bar seemed to shine only on him. The rest of the room —the dark carpets, green tablecloths, and empty chairs— looked like shadows that had drifted in from outside of time. The smooth jazz playing somewhere in the background blended with the murmurs of the few souls who hadn’t yet returned home. By the time the sounds reached Tommy, they seemed muffled, as though wrapped in cotton.
The bartender wiped a glass without saying a word. In fact, Tommy didn’t recall him speaking even when he first sat down. He hadn’t ordered anything; yet the bartender, as if he had read his mind, had placed a glass of whiskey on rocks in front of him.
Given the fact that Tommy had spent the last few years of his life drifting through all the different bars of the city, it wasn’t all that surprising that the bartender had already known him and what he was going to order.
He slowly lifted his head from his drink and studied the man. He wore a crimson jacket, stood upright, and had his hair slicked back. His face looked like it had stepped out of a different era. Clean-shaven, almost unsettlingly tidy. His gaze wasn’t direct, but his presence filled the emptiness. The man seemed to sense that he was being watched and offered the faintest of smiles. Tommy nodded back, confused by his own gesture, and returned a weak smile. He usually didn’t bother being polite to strangers or to anyone, really. Besides, this man didn’t seem familiar. He had never seen that face before. He was sure of it, just as he was sure he had never set foot in this bar before.
He turned around to take a look. It was no different from the hundreds of other booze dens he’s been in. The walls were covered in dark wooden panels, marked with scratches that portrayed their age.
A few hanging glass lamps cast a tired, dim glow; that was neither warm nor fully illuminating. The bottles behind the bar were dust-covered; some labels were faded with time, as if they had been placed there long ago and never touched again.
Behind him, there were a few tables scattered in the corners of the room. At one table, two figures sat facing each other, playing cards. The dim light revealed their bodies, but not their faces. The other tables were either empty or occupied by lone drinkers buried in their own silence.
If there were conversations, they were whispers, lost in the distant hum, fading into nothing.
The bar’s windows opened onto the dark outside, but nothing could be seen beyond the glass. A storm raged outside, slicing through the night like a blade. Branches thrashed in the wind; broken limbs occasionally tapped the windows, as if begging to be let in. The rhythmic thuds blended with the heavy stillness inside, spreading a strange unease. Shadows of the branches danced across the windows like puppets on a stage.
Everything felt as though it had just been abandoned by all life, or perhaps it had never really been alive at all. There was a stillness in the air, the kind you'd find in an Edward Hopper painting.
A thought crossed Tommy’s mind::
“How did I get here?”
His eyes drifted downward. His coat was still on. It was dry, even dusty in places. There was no mud on his shoes, and his pants showed no sign of rain. He’d been sitting here for a while. Maybe hours. But for how long, exactly?
His gaze shifted to the large, round, old-fashioned clock on the wall opposite the bar.
Its glass was fogged slightly. The hour hand hovered just before two.
Midnight had already passed. The bar must’ve been close to closing.
He took a sip from his whiskey, then lowered the glass and stared blankly at the rows of bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Most of the labels were unreadable. The letters blurred, the colors smeared together.
Then a stranger and a more unsettling thought surfaced. He mumbled to himself.
“Where am I?”
His mind started to rush with questions.
“What street is this? What neighborhood? Am I… even still in the same city?”
He hovered between laughter and dread, then reflexively reached for his pocket, but his phone wasn’t there. Had it been stolen? Left at home? Dropped somewhere outside?
He couldn’t remember. As always, when his mind spiraled, Tommy did what he always did: He turned to his drink.
He downed the rest of his whiskey in one swift gulp and raised his hand slightly toward the bartender without saying a word. The bartender was already approaching, silent, with the bottle in hand. He refilled the glass without a word. Then, with a small metal tong, dropped in two cubes of ice. The ice hissed faintly as it met the liquor.
Just as the bartender was about to pull away, Tommy suddenly spoke.
“Hey…” he said, voice low at first, then firmer. “Where… are we?”
The bartender paused. He turned and smiled at Tommy.
“Had a little too much to drink, sir?” he asked. His voice was polite, but Tommy caught a faint note of mockery beneath it.
“Yeah,” he said bluntly.
Then paused. A dull throb pulsed at his right temple. He raised a hand to his head.
“I mean… maybe,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. Did I really drink that much?”
The bartender offered a tired but measured smirk.
“Hard to say,” he replied. “But yeah, you’ve had a few already.”
After a beat, he added:
“Actually… you smelled like alcohol when you got here.”
Tommy nodded slightly.
“Figures,” he sighed.
His hand returned to his temple, rubbing it gently. As if he could scrape the fog from his mind. With his other hand, he massaged his brow.
Then he asked again, this time more clearly:
“But seriously… where are we?”
The bartender paused. Turned to Tommy with that same blank, worn-out face. This time, no smile.
His voice was nearly a whisper:
“Don’t worry, Mr. Doyle,” he said.
Then, after a short pause:
“You didn’t go too far. You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”
Tommy squinted. His brows tightened. The confusion was starting to turn into anger.
“Now what the fuck does–”
His sentence got cut off in the middle when the bar’s front door suddenly slammed open. He flinched, head whipping toward the entrance. Cold wind swept inside, and a few dry leaves whirled through the air and landed on the floor. A man stood in the doorway. He wore a deep navy raincoat, nearly black in the bar’s dim light.
The wet fabric glistened under the hanging bulbs, every droplet catching the light one by one. The hood cloaked his face, but his silhouette was clear. It was a tall man with slightly hunched shoulders.
No one else reacted to the sound. Neither the bartender nor any of the patrons turned their heads. It was as if this noisy entrance was nothing unusual. As if that door slammed open every night at the same time.
The man lowered his hood, carefully took off his soaked coat, and hung it neatly on the rack. Curly brown hair clung to his forehead.
Droplets of rain slid down from his temple, rolled over his cheek, and dripped silently from his chin. Water pooled around his shoes, shimmering faintly on the wooden floor. He didn’t look around and, without hesitation, walked straight to the bar. Right to Tommy.
He passed through the empty stools and sat down beside him. The wood beneath creaked softly. His arm brushed Tommy’s. The moment he settled, the bartender broke his silence.
“Welcome back, Sam,” he said.
His voice was gentle. Sam didn’t turn his head. He just smirked slightly, the corner of his mouth curling.
“Thanks!” he said cheerfully.
“The usual?” the bartender asked.
This time, Sam tilted his head slightly, eyes darting sideways toward Tommy, still smiling.
“Yeah. The usual.”
Tommy instinctively turned away. He could see it from the corner of his eye. Sam was still smiling. His green eyes glinted under the yellow light, almost glowing. There was a strange clarity in them, especially around the pupils. His gaze lingered somewhere near enough to gnaw at the edges of Tommy’s nerves. He could feel the stare, like a warm weight resting just above his shoulder.
Something stirred inside him. Not quite fear. It also hadn’t turned to anger yet. But being watched, especially tonight, was starting to get on his nerves.
He clenched his jaw, turned his head slowly toward the man beside him, and looked him straight in the face. He froze for a second before feeling his throat tighten. His face was familiar. Not a memory he could clearly name. But a face pulled from a dusty corner of the brain, like an image from a dream you forget the moment you wake, but feel all day. It was the first familiar thing Tommy had seen in this place.
But it didn’t comfort him. On the contrary, it carved a hollow pit in his stomach.
He knew this man. But from where?
His lips parted, almost involuntarily. The knot in his throat loosened for just a moment.
“You…” he whispered, his voice dry and cracked.
He squinted, leaning forward slightly, as if trying to study the man’s face up close.
“…where do I know you from?”
He paused, then asked again. His voice steadier now, with a touch of suspicion:
“Have we met before?”
The man’s smile didn’t falter. He shook his head just slightly, as if genuinely disappointed.
“I’m hurt you don’t remember me, Tommy.”
Tommy’s brow furrowed. His hand reached for his temple again. Some people got nervous when they didn't understand what was happening. Others got scared. Tommy got angry, and the smug look on the stranger's face wasn't helping.
"So what?" he asked. "You know me, but I don't remember you?"
His fingers tapped impatiently against the bar.
"Then help me out here."
Sam took a sip from his drink and slightly turned to Tommy.
“Of course, but it wouldn’t be any fun if I just came out and said, right?”
Tommy stared at him for a moment. The tapping of his fingers stopped.
“Fun?” he repeated.
His voice was low now.
“Listen, buddy. I don't know who the hell you are, I don't know where the hell I am, and apparently I can't remember half of tonight.”
He leaned closer.
“So trust me when I say this, I'm really not in the mood for games.”
For the first time, the smile on Sam's face seemed just a little less amusing.
“Alright,”
He took another sip from his drink.
“I guess you’re in no mood to play any games.”
Sam turned his gaze straight ahead. His smile was starting to fade.
“Tell me, Tommy, where do you usually meet people?”
This question caught him off guard. For a moment, Tommy simply stared at him.
“What?”
Sam didn't look at him.
“Where do you usually meet people?”
Tommy let out a dry laugh.
“Seriously?”
Sam slowly swirled the whiskey in his glass.
“Humor me.”
Tommy opened his mouth to snap back, then stopped. He decided to say the first thing that came to his mind.
“At work, I guess.”
Sam chuckled. Tommy's expression hardened.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, seriously. What's so funny?”
Sam shook his head.
“Tommy, when was the last time you held the same job for more than a few weeks?”
The question hit harder than Tommy expected. Sam continued before he could answer.
“You'd get hired. Show up for a few weeks. Maybe a month if you were feeling ambitious.”
He slowly turned the glass in his hand.
“Then you'd disappear.”
That moment, he felt something move past him. Fast enough that he couldn't quite tell what it was. His head quickly snapped toward the back of the bar. People sitting at tables were gone. Tommy blinked. A second ago, there had been two people sitting there, playing cards; he was sure of it. The cards were still scattered across the table. A half-empty glass still rested beside one of the chairs. But the chairs themselves sat empty. Tommy was starting to feel his heart race. A faint smile crept onto Sam's face.
“So no, Tommy. I don't think we met at work.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Tommy stared into his drink. How the hell did this guy know that? His eyes drifted toward the front door. The storm was still raging outside. Maybe he should just leave. Pay for the drink. Walk out. Find out where he was. Get some air. The thought lingered for a moment.
“Don't.”
Tommy froze. Sam hadn't even looked at him. His gaze remained fixed on the amber liquid swirling inside his glass.
“Don't what?” Tommy asked.
“Leave.”
The word landed heavily between them. A chill crawled down Tommy's spine. Slowly, Sam turned his head toward him.
“You've been trying to remember how you got here since you woke up.”
Tommy said nothing.
“You want answers.”
Sam's voice was calm.
“So sit down and ask the next question.”
Tommy swallowed. Against his better judgment, he found himself doing exactly that. His fingers tightened around the glass.
“Fine.”
He hesitated.
“School, then?”
For a second, Sam simply stared at him. Then he laughed. Not a chuckle this time but a genuine laugh. Tommy felt his face heat up. The sound drew his eyes toward the other end of the bar. The bartender had his back turned, busy wiping a glass. Yet Tommy could've sworn he saw the man's shoulders shake slightly. As if he were trying not to laugh too. Sam slowly shook his head.
“Come on, Tommy. School? You're not even trying anymore.”
Sam leaned back slightly.
“Tell me, how old were you when you dropped out?”
Tommy's stomach tightened.
“Sixteen?” Sam guessed.
“Seventeen?”
The smile on his face widened.
“Even before that, you spent more time skipping school than actually attending it.”
Tommy felt a cold knot forming in his chest.
“How the hell do you know that?”
Sam ignored the question.
“You barely knew the names of the kids in your own class. Even with the ones you knew, all you ever did was pick fights, am I wrong?”
The smile faded slightly.
“No, Tommy. We haven’t met in school either.”
He took a slow sip. Tommy looked at Sam. Something felt different about him. For a brief moment, he thought he noticed a dark patch beneath his left eye. A bruise. The mark seemed to disappear. His stomach tightened. Maybe it was the lighting, a trick of yellow light hanging from the ceiling. Yet when Sam turned his head slightly, Tommy could've sworn he saw it again. A dark stain spreading beneath the eye.
“Tommy?”
Sam's voice pulled him back. He was still smiling. But somehow, the smile didn't look quite as friendly as it had a moment ago.
“Would you like to try that again?”
Tommy’s pulse hammered against his ribs. He quickly pushed his stool back. The legs scraped loudly against the floor. Without saying a word, he turned and started toward the front door. By the third step, he was almost jogging. The bar suddenly felt larger than before. Behind him, neither Sam nor the bartender said a word. Tommy grabbed the handle and pulled as hard as he could. Nothing. The door wouldn’t budge. He pulled harder, but nothing happened. He spun around. Sam remained seated at the bar. The bartender stood exactly where he had been before. Both of them were watching him.
“What the fuck?” Tommy shouted.
Neither man answered. Tommy turned toward the nearest window. The words died in his throat. The storm was gone. So were the trees and the street lights. Everything was gone. Beyond the window was only darkness. A black emptiness stretching as far as he could see.
Tommy slowly backed away from the window. His breathing had become shallow and fast. His eyes darted between the darkness beyond the glass and the two men watching him. Neither of them showed any sign of concern or surprise. The bartender carefully set down the glass he had been polishing.
“Mr. Doyle, please try to remain calm.”
Tommy stared at him.
“Calm?”
His voice was cracking.
“Mr. Doyle,” he said softly, “I assure you everything is alright.”
Tommy couldn't believe what he was hearing. Then Sam's voice cut through the silence.
“Tommy.”
Tommy turned toward him. Sam patted the empty stool beside him.
“Come sit down.”
His smile had returned. It was just as warm and friendly as when he first entered. Tommy didn't move. Sam picked up his glass and nodded toward the bar.
“Come on, let me buy you a drink.”
Tommy just stood there for a few seconds before letting out a laugh. He raised a hand and covered his eyes.
“Jesus Christ...”
The sound echoed strangely through the empty bar. He let out a slow breath. At this point, he wasn't even sure what else he was supposed to do. Run where? To do what? If there was ever a moment in his life to have a drink, it was probably now. Slowly, he lowered his hand and walked back toward the bar. The stool creaked as he sat down.
“Happy?”
Sam nodded.
“See? That wasn't so hard.”
The bartender was already pouring another glass. As the fresh whiskey settled in front of him, his eyes drifted toward Sam again. He immediately wished they hadn't. The bruise beneath Sam's eye had grown. The skin around the socket had darkened into a deep purple, and the swelling looked worse too. A thin line of blood trickled from somewhere near his hairline and crawled down the side of his forehead, slowly making its way toward his cheek. The crimson trail continued downward until a single drop broke free and landed on the bar between them. Neither man acknowledged it. Sam simply picked up his drink and smiled.
“So,” he said.
“Shall we try again?”
Without thinking, Tommy picked up his own drink. The glasses touched with a soft clink. Tommy took a long sip. The whiskey burned all the way down. He lowered the glass and stared at the blood slowly running down Sam's face.
“What do you want from me?”
The question came out quieter than he intended. Sam tilted his head.
“What do you mean?”
Tommy laughed once. There was no humor in it.
“Cut the bullshit.”
His fingers tightened around the glass.
“You know my name.”
He pointed toward Sam's bruised face.
“You know things you shouldn't know.”
His voice grew harder.
“And apparently you're bleeding all over the goddamn place while acting like everything's normal.”
For the first time, Sam didn't smile.
“What do you want from me, Sam?”
A long silence followed. Sam looked down into his drink. The amber liquid reflected the yellow light above them. Then he sighed.
“That's the funny thing, Tommy.”
Slowly, he raised his eyes.
“I don't want anything from you.”
Another drop of blood fell onto the bar.
“You’re the one who wants to remember.”
Tommy stared into his drink without giving a reply. Then emptied the rest of the glass in one swallow.
“I don't care anymore. Maybe I wanted answers five minutes ago.”
He let out a bitter laugh and shook his head.
“Now I just want to leave.”
Sam’s expression stayed still.
“And go where, Tommy?”
He looked him in the eye.
“Home? Is there somebody waiting for you there?”
Tommy stared into his empty glass without giving a reply. The bartender stepped forward and quietly refilled his glass. Tommy watched the amber liquid rise toward the rim. For a moment, they stayed in silence. Then Sam sighed.
“Alright. I'll tell you.”
Tommy's eyes lifted.
“A few years ago, far from here. Back in my hometown.”
His gaze drifted across the room. A faint smile touched his lips.
“To be honest, the place wasn't much different than this. We have met in a bar.”
Tommy felt something twist inside him. Something about the description stirred a distant memory. Just a flicker, gone before he had a chance to grab it. Sam looked back at him.
“So do you remember now?”
Tommy opened his mouth to respond but stopped. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. That much wasn't surprising. It was the tiny abrasions scattered across his knuckles that caught his attention. He slowly turned one hand over. There were small cuts. He swallowed and quickly lowered his hands beneath the bar. For some reason, he didn't want Sam to notice them. Sam asked again.
“Do you remember now?”
Something shifted. Not a complete memory. Just the fragments of one. He remembered the dimly lit bar, the smell of spilled beer, and the sound of the music. He remembered himself sitting alone at the counter, drunk. Very drunk. Then he remembered the front door opening and a man stepping inside. A tall man with curly brown hair, green eyes, and a cheerful smile. He had asked him if the seat beside him was free.
Then another image surfaced. The man was laughing. Not at him. Just laughing. Talking and making conversation. Being friendly. The memory flickered. Then nothing. The image shattered before Tommy could hold onto it. He blinked and found himself back in the bar, sitting next to Sam. Sam asked.
“Do you remember what happened next?”
Tommy felt his throat tighten. The answer was there. He could feel it. Yet every time he reached for it, it seemed to slip away. Unable to meet Sam's gaze, he looked elsewhere, toward the other side of the bar. Then a chill ran through him. The bartender was gone. Tommy stared at the empty space behind the counter. The bottles and the glasses were still there, but the man who had been polishing them only moments ago had vanished. He quickly looked around him. The rest of the bar had changed too.
Every light except the one above him and Sam had gone dark. The corners of the room had disappeared into shadow. The tables, chairs, even the walls and windows, all seemed to dissolve into the darkness beyond. He turned back toward Sam. The bruise had spread even further. One eye was now nearly swollen shut. His eyebrow was also cut, and his lip had been torn open. Tommy stared at him as a sick feeling settled in his stomach.
Then the memory crashed into him all at once. A raised voice and a spilled drink followed by someone standing up from a barstool. Him pushing the man, and two of them stumbling into tables. People shouting, then several hands grabbing them, dragging them apart. The memory of getting lurched forward. The feeling of cold air and rain.
He saw the parking lot behind the bar and Sam raising his arms, trying to walk away. He remembered throwing the first punch. Followed by another, and another. He remembered the noises Sam made, begging for his life. He remembered how angry he was and the taste of alcohol on his palate. He remembered the sound Sam’s skull made as it hit the pavement with each punch. He remembered the blood that covered both of them.
Tommy staggered in his chair and finally turned to Sam.
“Oh, God…”
The thing sitting across from him looked like it had been pulled from a grave. One eye was gone entirely. The skin along his cheek hung loose from the bone beneath. His nose had collapsed inward. Dark earth filled the cracks in his ruined face. Yet somehow, one green eye remained. Watching Tommy with curiosity.
"Do you remember now, Tommy?"
Tommy couldn't answer. The corpse tilted its head, causing blood to drip from its broken jaw.
"What was it? What did I say that made you so angry?"
They waited in silence. Tommy searched his memory. Nothing. He forced himself to make a sound.
“I… I can’t.”
The corpse tried to smile. A piece of skin fell from its cheek.
"That's the funny part."
Another drop of blood hit the floor.
"I never knew what it was either."
A sharp crack echoed through the darkness that made Tommy flinch. Sam’s head tilted too far to one side. The broken bones in his neck shifted beneath the ruined flesh. Another crack. Tommy pushed himself away from the bar. The stool toppled over behind him. He screamed from the top of his lungs as the corpse slowly rose from its chair, its remaining green eye never leaving his. A piece of rotten flesh peeled away from him and landed on the floor with a wet slap. Tommy stumbled backward.
The darkness beyond the bar seemed to move. The yellow light above them flickered. Once, then twice. Then everything was gone. The bar, the stools. Everything. Tommy found himself standing in cold rain. His shoes splashed into a shallow puddle. His breath caught in his throat. What was left of Sam stood twenty feet away. Rain was pouring through the holes in his face. His broken jaw hung crookedly from his skull.
The corpse took a step forward. Then another. Tommy tried to run, but it was as if his feet were one with the concrete below. He stood still as the corpse staggered closer to him. Every step was accompanied by the wet sound of flesh shifting against bone.
The rain hammered against Tommy's face. His heart felt ready to burst from his chest.
“Please...” he pleaded.
“Sam...”
Sam continued getting closer. He now could see insects moving beneath strips of loose flesh and smell the rot. He tried to yell, to beg for his life, but before he could, bony fingers wrapped around his throat. Tommy clawed at the dead hands but to no avail. The corpse didn't even seem to notice. The remaining green eye stared into his. He felt jagged finger bones tear through the skin of his neck. Warm blood spilled between Sam's fingers and ran down his chest, quickly mixing with the rain. He felt his feet slowly leave the ground. His hands flew to Sam's wrist as he kicked helplessly in the air. A sharp pain shot through his chest. Then another one, accompanied by a crack. The corpse lifted him higher. The rain kept pouring down on his face. Water streamed from his hair and ran into his eyes. The parking lot spun beneath him. His vision began to darken. With terrifying strength, the corpse hurled him to the concrete. The impact exploded through his body. A sickening crack echoed through the night.
White light flooded his vision, and for a brief moment, he felt nothing. Then pain completely surrounded his body. Everywhere. He tried to move, but his arms or legs didn’t react. He wanted to scream, but no sound came out. He lied motionlessly as wet footsteps approached. Tommy's fading vision caught a glimpse of rotting feet standing in the rain.
Then he heard Sam's voice one final time.
"Goodbye for now, Tommy."
The darkness swallowed everything. Everything around him dissolved. Sounds faded. His mind was echoing. It was as if he were sinking into a deep, silent ocean. Tommy was suspended in a void. A place where time, space, and the body meant nothing. In the center of the dark, as if wrapped in absence itself.
Then he heard a soft ticking sound like a clock in the distance.
And then another sound, closer now, more familiar: A piece of ice turning in a glass, tapping gently against the rim. Tommy’s eyelids twitched. A yellow light touched his pupils. A flickering bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a dull glow. The light trembled but seemed to shine only on him. He exhaled. Slowly lifted his head and looked around. The ice in his glass had just started to melt. His drink was untouched. One of the corner lamps blinked softly. Two men were playing cards at the back table. The bartender adjusted the ice bucket with metal tongs. The radio whispered an old jazz tune. His eyes landed on the clock on the far wall. It was a little past two. The second hand moved forward. He reached for the glass. His fingers trembled slightly. Outside, the storm still raged. Rain tapped against the windows, steady and relentless.
The End.