(Present Time)
(November 23rd, 2010)
(Thursday)
Talking about surprise parties, I think that was the most "anticlimactic" part of surprises ever. Because, in the end, I'm scarred for life, I'll say. After that incident, I've felt lost—so lost that even the sensation of pain no longer registers the way it should. Whether someone struck me across the face, or a needle pierced my skin, or even a blade carved into the inside of my palm, I felt nothing. No sentiment. Just a hollow numbness that grew like a parasite, feeding on everything I once was. I kept deluding myself, telling myself lies to survive. They're still here, I whispered. They're still standing right beside me. I would envision Hanae, her laughter spilling out as she sipped whatever drink her craving demanded that day; sometimes juice, sometimes soda, sometimes something strange she mixed just to see how it tasted. And Mom, steady as ever, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, though more often than not it was tea, because money was scarce and coffee was a luxury she couldn't always afford. But when I opened my eyes, the table was bare. The chairs felt icy, and the silence was more deafening than any scream. I attempted to push it away, yet the memory clawed its way back each time. The fire. The voices. The way they called out for me. The way I couldn't reach them. I convince myself I fought, I convince myself I tried, but the reality is I failed. And that failure weighs heavier than any injury.
I am haunted by questions that never leave my mind. Why wasn't I quicker? Why didn't I remain? Why did I survive when they did not? The answers elude me, and only regret follows me. The villagers pulled me back that night, their hands clutching me, their voices imploring. Don't go in, Tomas. It's too late. But I resisted them. I yelled. I swore I could still save my family. And when the roof caved in, I crumbled too. The flames consumed every hope I have in me. Now, each day feels like a sentence. My arm throbs when the chill sets in, my head pounds with phantom pain, but none of it compares to the burden in my chest. I don't consider myself courageous. Courageous individuals save those they cherish. I did not. I failed. And that failure is the shadow that trails me everywhere. So I prioritize writing. I write because it's the only way for me to escape my own reality. This was the way for me to express my own sorrows and to convey to everyone that I loved them more than anything. However, the downside for me is that I don't know how to express my words or actions correctly, and that's as much as I can provide.
(Flashback to the past)
Days passed after the fire, and Tomas's world grew emptier with each sunrise. Everyone he had known in the village was gone; either consumed by the flames or unwilling to take him in. The few names that lingered in his mind, Ms. Černý and Lara. They were distant and unreachable, but he still had sympathy for them. Especially for Lara, he missed her very much and always counted the days just to see her again. In the end, Tomas was placed in an orphanage, a place that would become both his shelter and his prison for much of his life. Children came and went, faces changing like seasons, but Tomas remained the same. He never truly settled. Instead, he drifted from one orphanage to another, never comfortable, never at peace, always preferring to move rather than root himself in a place that felt foreign. Despite the instability, Tomas clung to one determination: education. He went back and forth between orphanages and schools, refusing to let his studies collapse the way his home had. But rules were rules, and the orphanage had its curfew at 10:45 PM sharp. Tomas broke it constantly. He would return late, only to be scolded by the women at the front desk, their voices sharp with disapproval. He listened, but he didn't care. In his eyes, many of them were doing a poor job anyway, and their reprimands meant little to someone who had already lost everything.
As the years dragged on, Tomas's behavior grew more erratic. He was no longer himself, lost in the blurred line between reality and the imaginative world inside his head. Right and wrong became indistinguishable, and his choices often led him into trouble. Fights became frequent, his anger spilling out in bursts he couldn't control. There were moments when temptation brushed close: drugs, alcohol, the easy escape from pain, but something inside him always pulled back. He never crossed that line, though the destruction inside him made it tempting. Instead, Tomas found small, fragile ways to cope. He distracted himself with fruit candies and lollipops, letting the sweetness numb his thoughts while his fingers fidgeted endlessly with the small brown bear Hanae had given him. That bear was his anchor, the last tangible piece of his sister, worn and frayed but irreplaceable. At the age of eighteen, after finishing elementary school, an advertisement caught his eye: a military-based high school program for children ready to move forward. Something about it stirred him. Discipline, structure, purpose; all things he lacked but desperately needed. He signed up, and from that moment, his attention shifted.
Just like the wind, Tomas completed high school under the military program. Four years have passed, and he is now twenty-two years old. And when it ended, he sentenced himself to more years of service. He pursued his bachelor's degree alongside his military duties; hence, the other two years were added, for him to mainly focus on the military aspects. Forcing himself into a life of order and responsibility, hoping it would clear his head and give him meaning. Housing, however, was never simple. The orphanage had its curfew, and once the doors were locked, Tomas was left outside. The military base was often overcrowded, with no space for him to stay. So he adapted. He informed his lieutenant of his situation, promising he would return each day, and instead lodged at a small motel a few blocks from the base. It wasn't home, but it was a place to rest his head. Through it all, Tomas carried the same weight: the fire, the loss, the bear in his pocket, and the endless search for something that could make him whole again.
From the moment Tomas entered the military-based high school program, his personality remained unchanged. Quiet, reserved, and stoic: he carried himself with a calmness that others often mistook for indifference. He rarely spoke unless necessary, and when he did, his words were clipped, deliberate, and without flourish. It wasn't that he lacked thought; it was that he had learned long ago that silence was safer than vulnerability. Despite his withdrawn nature, Tomas quickly rose to the top of the program. His grades were exceptional, his discipline unmatched, and his ability to follow through on tasks made him stand out among his peers. Yet, Tomas himself cared little for the recognition. He didn't chase praise or accolades. He simply went with the flow, completing what was required, never asking for more, never celebrating his own achievements. Of course, not everyone admired him. Some of the other kids mocked him, especially for his hair: prematurely grey, a trait that had followed him since elementary school. The jokes were predictable, recycled, and the same old insults he had heard for years. "Old man," they would call him, or "grandpa." But Tomas never flinched. He had grown immune to their words, hardened by repetition. Their ridicule slid off him like rain against stone. He had endured worse than childish taunts, and he knew it.
What unsettled others was his refusal to react. He didn't fight back, didn't argue, didn't even acknowledge the insults. He simply carried on, his expression unreadable, his posture unshaken. To Tomas, their cruelty was nothing more than background noise, another reminder that the world would always try to break him, and another chance for him to prove he would not bend. In truth, Tomas's stoicism was not a strength but a survival. He had learned to bury his emotions deep, to lock them away where no one could reach. The fire had taken his family, the orphanage had stripped him of belonging, and the program demanded obedience. So he gave them what they wanted: a boy who excelled, who endured, who never complained. But inside, he remained fractured, carrying the weight of memories that no discipline could erase.
(August 22nd, 1986)
(11:25 AM)
(Sunday)
-"Holy shit, really?!" Emanuel exclaimed, his voice echoing down the hallway.-"Yeah! So then he tried to cut his girlfriend off, but there was no luck. You know why?" Erik said, dragging out the suspense. -"What happened? Tell me!" Emanuel pressed, leaning in with innocent curiosity. -"Because he realized she was pregnant with his kid," Tomas interrupted, his tone flat, almost bored. "If he left her, he'd look bad. And her older sister? She used to be a fighter. He'd get his dick cut off and beaten to a pulp by his parents and hers."
-"Tomas!" Erik groaned, grabbing Tomas's shoulder and shaking him like a bobblehead. "Why did you answer? I wanted to explain it!"
Emanuel blinked, speechless, still processing the bluntness of Tomas's delivery.
-"What, Erik?" Tomas replied evenly. "You need to cut to the chase. You were losing Emanuel with all that dragging." -"But still! You know how dramatic I want the story to be!" Erik complained, sounding both irritated and defeated.
"No," Tomas said, his voice calm but cutting. "It's just you being nosy and digging into other people's business."
-"I'm not nosy! I just… like hearing stuff and making assumptions!" Erik protested. -"Exactly. Nosy."-"You're killing me, man," Erik muttered, throwing his hands up.
Emanuel tilted his head, still curious. "Tomas… how did you even reply to the conversation without engaging in it?" Both of them stared at him now. At twenty-three, Tomas stood taller than both guys. Tomas stood 6'1 frame, casting over Erik and Emanuel, who were just shy of 5'11 in a half, "He told me yesterday," Tomas said simply. "Explained everything in detail."
"WHAT?! When was this?!" Erik and Emanuel shouted in unison, their voices bouncing off the walls as they walked toward the cafeteria. "Yesterday. Yesterday afternoon in the conference room," Tomas replied, one word at a time, leaving them stunned and wordless.
-"WHAT—" Erik started, but was cut off by a booming voice behind them. -"ERIK, AND EZEKIEL, TO THE CAFETERIA! TOMAS, WITH ME!" The lieutenant's voice thundered down the hall, his boots pounding heavier with each step. -"Yes, sir!!" Erik and Emanuel snapped to attention.
"But sir, my name is Emanuel, not Ezekiel," Emanuel corrected nervously. "Then, Samuel it is! Do you have an issue with that?" the lieutenant barked. "No, sir!" Emanuel replied quickly. "Then get going!"
Tomas stood in silence, waiting. His expression was unreadable, his posture rigid. "Tomas, come with me to my office," the lieutenant ordered. Tomas didn't speak. He simply followed. The hallway echoed with the lieutenant's heavy stomps, each step carrying authority, while Tomas's quieter footsteps trailed behind, steady and restrained. When they reached the office, Tomas sat down across from the lieutenant's desk. The lieutenant lowered himself into his chair, the air thick with expectation. Now, face to face, the banter of the hallway was gone. The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the overhead light. And that's when the talking began.
The lieutenant's office was quiet, save for the faint hum of the overhead light. Papers were stacked neatly across the desk, contracts tucked into folders that had long since yellowed at the edges. Tomas sat across from him, posture straight, expression calm, his silence filling the room like a second presence. "How many years has it been now?" the lieutenant asked, leaning back in his chair, his voice softer than it had been in the hallway. "Eight years, lieutenant," Tomas replied evenly. "Eight?" The lieutenant's brows lifted in surprise. "Already? Damn. Time does fly by."
-"Yeah," Tomas said, his tone steady, almost detached. "I joined the program when I was fifteen. Extended my stay for four more years so I could finish my bachelor's."
The lieutenant nodded, impressed but not shocked. He reached for one of the folders on his desk, flipping through the contracts Tomas had signed eight years ago. The conversation drifted into paperwork, obligations, and the fine print of service, but gradually, his mind wandered. He remembered Tomas at fifteen, small, malnourished, a boy who looked like he had carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. And now, sitting across from him, Tomas was taller, broader, his frame defined and toned from years of training. Yet despite the physical transformation, he was still the same quiet kid the lieutenant remembered. Detached. Reserved. Mysterious. Favoritism wasn't supposed to exist in the program. Every recruit was meant to be treated equally. But the lieutenant couldn't deny it: Tomas stood out. Not just because he was a fast learner, excelling in his core classes, or because he consistently ranked in the top five during drills and exercises. It was something else, something harder to name. Tomas carried an aura that drew attention without asking for it, a quiet gravity that made people look twice.
The lieutenant had seen it from the beginning. Back when Tomas was first orphaned, he would visit the orphanage, checking in on the kids, watching their routines. And every day, he noticed the same boy sitting alone in the corner of the dining hall. Tomas, hunched over, fidgeting with a small brown bear between his hands. A bear worn from years of touch, its seams frayed, its stitched smile faded. Tomas would sit there in his hoodie and blue pajama pants patterned with teddy bears, silent, withdrawn, lost in his own world. "He really likes teddy bears", the lieutenant used to think, watching him from a distance. He never said it aloud, but he saw it in Tomas's eyes, the way he clung to that bear as if it were the last piece of someone he couldn't let go. Now, years later, Tomas sat across from him, no longer that frail boy but still carrying the same quiet mystery. The lieutenant studied him for a moment, then spoke, his voice softer, almost reflective. "You remind me a lot of my older son," he said. "He was just like you in some ways. Except he wasn't quiet. He was loud. Always talking, always laughing. But… there's something in you that feels familiar."
Tomas didn't answer. He simply nodded once, his calm expression unchanged, his silence speaking louder than words. The lieutenant leaned back, exhaling slowly. He knew Tomas wasn't one for conversation, but he also knew that behind those stoic eyes was a boy who had endured more than most men ever would. And though he would never say it outright, the lieutenant respected him deeply, not just for his discipline, but for surviving, for carrying his scars without complaint. Finally, the lieutenant spoke again, his tone shifting from reflection to something more direct. "Tell me, Tomas… do you plan to stay in the military? Or are you searching for something else?" Tomas's gaze held steady, his voice calm but firm. "I don't know yet, lieutenant. The military gave me purpose. It cleared my head. But… I'm still looking. Still trying to figure out what's left for me." The lieutenant nodded slowly, understanding more than Tomas realized. "Fair enough. Just remember, purpose isn't always found in contracts or ranks. Sometimes it's found in the people you choose to fight for." Tomas didn't answer. He simply sat there, patient as ever, the weight of his quietness filling the room.
When Tomas's contract finally ended, the ceremony was simple but meaningful. Degrees, certificates, and badges were handed to him, tangible proof of years of discipline, sacrifice, and endurance. His paycheck was placed in his hands, but it wasn't the money that mattered. What mattered was the quiet recognition that he had survived, that he had built something for himself out of the ashes of his past. He didn't linger in the spotlight. Tomas never did. He shook hands, exchanged brief farewells, and offered nods to those who had trained beside him. His goodbyes were understated, but sincere. For him, leaving wasn't about closing a chapter with fanfare; it was about stepping into the unknown with the same quiet resilience that had carried him this far. Outside the gates, the world felt softer. The drills, the shouting, the endless rhythm of military life faded into the hum of ordinary streets. Tomas carried his belongings in silence, his mind already set on rest. He returned to the motel a few blocks down, the place that had always welcomed him when the base was too crowded.
The motel owner greeted him with a knowing look. By now, Tomas was more than just a guest; he was part of the rhythm of the place. He always paid in full, never asking how long he'd stay. The owners didn't question him; they simply let him be, trusting his quiet reliability. In his room, Tomas lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The silence was heavy, but it wasn't hostile. It was comforting, familiar. Here, he could breathe. Here, he could rest. The owners had long noticed his quiet kindness. Sometimes, when the lobby lights flickered, Tomas would replace the bulbs without being asked. Other times, he'd tidy the front desk, straightening chairs or wiping counters so the space looked welcoming again. He never announced it, never asked for thanks; he simply slipped back into the background, pretending nothing had happened. And then there were the teenagers who worked the night shifts. Tomas saw the exhaustion in their faces, the way they struggled to balance school and work. So he would leave small bags for them: snacks, medicine, drinks, little comforts to help them through the night. He never said much, but his actions spoke louder than words. It was his way of protecting, of giving back, of reminding them that someone cared. To most, Tomas was just another guest. But to those who paid attention, he was something more: a man who carried scars in silence, who had endured loss and hardship, yet still found ways to bring comfort to others. In the quiet corners of the motel, Tomas was rebuilding himself, not with grand gestures, but with small acts of kindness, each one a step toward healing…Or so he thought he was healing?