He had to go for his CS game (Facebook note)

He had to go for his CS game, but there was still time. It was only 12.30 pm, and school hasn’t ended yet. At least not for those who went to school that day. There was a restaurant somewhere in Oldtown. Upstairs was a snooker center. They went there often, but never to play snooker. The cues were crooked. The tables were bad. The balls were never polished. Nobody goes there.

He walked up the stairs, counting the time he had before the game. There was still time to kill. Nobody was in the snooker center, save 5 of his friends. Some were laying on the snooker tables almost unconscious, others playing free snooker games. The counter guy was holding a cigarette self-wrapped into a cone shape, lit. The game was already paid for, just not by cash. He joined his friends, dropping his school bag aside. There was nothing in his bag but his school shirt. Maybe a pack of cigarettes. He couldn’t remember.

One guy was rolling a new stick. He pulled out some chopped up leaves from a plastic bag and laid them onto two cigarette papers. The smell of it escaped the bag. Bad, but good. Peppery and fresh, somewhat. His friend told him this was good. Better than the others before. This was fresh from up north. Mango, they called it. He took a drag. He couldn’t tell it if was good. He had another. Before he knew it, he was laying on a snooker table, unable to lift his head. It’d spin. His lips were dry. His throat was dry. He’d ask for the lady downstairs to get him a drink, but he was too busy enjoying the moment.

He’d left the center, walking toward the bus stop with his school bag around him. He couldn’t remember leaving the center or getting off the snooker table. The wet market was to his left now. He could smell the stench of death looming in the atmosphere. He could come up with big words when he was in that state. He smiled wide. A car drove to the side of the road in front of him and came to a stop. An old blue car. He couldn’t make out the brand. He walked up to the car, and saw no one in it. It can’t be. He didn’t see anyone leave the car.

He was already sitting in the bus stop, waiting for his bus. He must, must, must get on Bus 27, and nothing else. Bus 27 Bus 27 Bus 27 Bus 27 Bus 27. He had to make sure it was the correct bus. A friend was there. He was asked questions, and he answered without knowing what he’d said. They talked for quite a while, and he had to make sure his friend didn’t suspect a thing. He couldn’t remember what they talked about, or what he said, but his friend seemed quite entertained. He was, too. But not by the topic of conversation.

He blinked, and he was in a bus. A ticket in his hand. Bus 27. How did that happen? The bus floated up and down, like a boat. It swung left and right like a boat. He was out of the bus now. The place seemed familiar. Old Klang Road was the hardest road to cross, he thought. To him, maybe. And at that time, maybe. He might die. He needed to concentrate. A truck might hit him. He couldn’t estimate the speed the cars were coming at. He might end up in the hospital, with the doctors finding out what was in his head. He was already walking in the inner roads. He stopped and saw Old Klang Road behind him, the sound of traffic already drowned by distance. The cyber café was just in front.

He logged in and began configuring his keys to the CS game. When he got in, he played. Something was wrong. When he strafed left, the character moved right. Must be his head, he thought. But should he believe his eyes or his hands? His hands. The eyes are closer to his head, and his head wasn’t in proper working order, he thought. He moved according to how he remembered the layout of the map would be, and started shooting at walls. There’s an archway with doors, he thought. Someone should be there, he thought. No. this is not right. He went out and checked his key configurations. He had set it up wrongly. How stupid that would look to those who noticed.

He couldn’t use the MP5. He couldn’t use the AK47. He’d keep dying. Let’s try the sniper, he thought. With every click of the mouse, the bang echoed in his head. He’d shoot so fast, the only way to know if he’d killed someone was when the cash counter turned green. He’d click 50 frags in the open server before his friends arrived half an hour later. The thing in his head would also already fade away. He wished there was some more to keep him in killer sniping form that day. And they lost the game that day.