Pitbabe S2, Chapter 9 pg1

 Pitbabe S2, Chapter 9 pg1

   Chapter 9:

   TONY:

   Even though more than two years have passed, the news of my death still feels like a joke that never fails to make me smile. While waiting for those brainless idiots to finish the tasks I assigned them, I like to spend my small pockets of free time scrolling through news about myself that’s been spread far and wide—through reputable news outlets and random social media posts alike. The credibility of these sources varies like heaven and earth, but the content they churn out is equally nonsensical. Not a single one has reported the truth, and that’s what makes it so funny.

   I think I’m probably the only person in the world who can experience this kind of surreal amusement—at least as far as I know right now. There are likely countless people who, after midnight, lie awake in bed, wrestling with questions they know they’ll never get answers to. Of course, beyond replaying embarrassing mistakes, regrets, humiliations, and the general awfulness of life they’d rather forget, I’d bet death is one of the topics people think about most on sleepless nights. How will we die? Where do we go after? Will it hurt? How many people will cry for us? Who’ll secretly be glad we’re gone? Who’ll take the longest to move on from our death? Or who’ll be the first to forget we ever shared a part of their life? Knowing these things is pointless, but so many people want to know anyway. And it’s a shame they’ll never get those answers.

   Because those people aren’t me.

   I’ve died countless times before. The feeling before death still lingers, etched deep in my consciousness. Some deaths were so agonizing I wished I could stop breathing sooner, while others were so peaceful I regretted having to leave. But no matter the kind, in the end, it’s just emptiness. In the universe we inhabit, there’s no such thing as an “afterlife.” Everyone is just one insignificant possibility in an infinite dimension. We exist in countless versions, living earnestly or hopelessly based on our own choices. In one world, I’m a top surgeon, doing everything to save a critical patient. In another, I’m a weak beggar, outdone by others for a mere ten baht. In one world, I’m basking in love with a beautiful actress who vows lifelong fidelity to me alone. But in the world next door, I’m a pathetic loser, confessing love to the same guy for the fifth time, standing hopeful for a sixth rejection.

   The truth is, our deaths are just tiny events in the vast universe. For some, like Freddie Mercury or Princess Diana, beloved by many, their deaths touch millions of hearts. The grief might last a month or two, and nostalgia returns each year on the same day. But in between, people move on, their names barely lingering in thought. That’s human nature. Our brains are too feeble to process everything at once, so they prioritize only what’s vital—vital for surviving the present, vital for the near future. That’s why the dead aren’t just decaying bodies or dust; their very existence fades too.

   My first death had only one person crying: the old man from the tea shop. Maybe because he was the only one who ever talked to me. During my homeless years from twelve to fifteen, Uncle Tong was like a temporary mentor. His name was Tong—not sure if it was a nickname or his real name—and his surname was Chen. I knew because it was the only two Chinese characters I could read. Well, “read” is generous; I just recognized them. The character “Chen” was carved in wood, proudly displayed above his tea shop. I stared at it every day until I could copy it. The character “Tong” was written on nearly all his belongings. He always grumbled about people stealing from his house, so he labeled everything. I wasn’t exactly a genius back then, but I had two questions: One, who would steal trivial things like a toothbrush or a water glass from his place? Two, how would writing his name stop thieves? His house wasn’t a kindergarten where kids mix up their cups. I thought that every time he proudly wrote his name on a new purchase. Of course, I never said anything, even if I thought it was utterly foolish.

   And clearly, “begging strangers for money” and “taking things that (seemed) ownerless” didn’t make my life comfortable. On days when I couldn’t scrounge up money or food from anywhere, Uncle Tong’s tea shop was my refuge in tough times. I tried hard not to rely on it too often. Some days, unless I was starving to the point of seeing stars, I’d hold out. But more often than not, Uncle Tong would happen to pass by when I was curled up with hunger pains. He’d give me a cold stare, set down a boxed meal and a bottle of water, and walk off. When I called out my thanks, he’d pretend not to hear—unless he was in an unusually good mood. Then he’d turn, glare at me, and bark, “Eat it all.”

   My relationship with Uncle Tong was barely anything. I only went to him when I was hungry (which was every day). He’d just order me to do this or that whenever I showed up for food. Sometimes he’d try teaching me to read (mostly Chinese), but he’d give up after a few words. He was too impatient to repeat anything more than three times. That’s why my Chinese never improved, despite being around real Chinese people nearly every day. I picked up some other knowledge, mostly from old books people threw out or from Uncle Tong’s collection, eighty percent of which were Chinese astrology texts.

   My day of death was utterly unremarkable. No omens, no signs. I just left my little shack, wandering around like every other morning, looking left and right, scavenging for anything that could be useful for my meager existence. Then I spotted a box of fried chicken from a famous chain, freshly tossed out of the window of a white Honda Civic. I can still picture it clearly: the car slowed near the trash bin, the window rolled down, and a bag with the box inside was thrown perfectly into the bin. Then the car sped off. I rushed over, peered into the bin, and grabbed the bag that had just been discarded. Opening it, I found several pieces of fried chicken inside, with only a few bones. But what caught my eye were three large, untouched pieces.

   Enough to keep me full all day.

   That’s what I thought for a few minutes. I’d barely finished the first piece when, out of nowhere, a gang of kids on motorcycles showed up. There were four of them—two guys, two girls—on two bikes. The guys were driving, and they looked about seventeen or eighteen, not much older than me. They circled around me, making loud, weird noises like they were high on something. One of the girls riding pillion snatched my breakfast from my hands. Another, on the second bike, reached out and slapped my head. They did this despite us being complete strangers, with no prior grudges. If there was any reason for their actions, it was probably just for fun.

   Fun?

   Is my life… a source of amusement?

Previous

Next