"Worthless people live only to eat and drink; people of worth eat and drink only to live."

- Socrates

The diner was barely half filled with patrons having their breakfasts. Scents of scrambled eggs and bacons floated out of the kitchen and marinated the room. The establishment had a 1960s theme to it, the black and white ceramic tile floors were waxed to the point of reflection, the stretching of the red leather upholsteries of the booth seats etched into the background with the clinking of utensils. Tim sat at one of the stools on the bar, watching his remaining hand on the grey marble counter top confusingly. His newly acquired stump of a right arm stung with pain, but not enough to be at the forefront of his mind.

“Can I take your order?” the girl in white stood on the opposite side of the table. She leaned her elbows on the counter and her cheeks on her hands, so that her face was paralleled to his.

He stared into her grey eyes, attempting to re-grasps his situation, then shifted his gaze over to the familiar Street 99 Diner. “I used to come to this place with my mom and dad. But this place closed down years ago.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she replied dreamily, “It’s not my memory.”

He turned back to her. “Memory? Isn’t this a dream?”

“Dreams, memories. Past, future. They’re really the same thing here.”

“What does that mean?”

She smile turned into a grin. “Come on, make a clever deduction or something? Like Sherlock Holmes!”

Annoyed at her reply, he turned his attention away from her and towards the booths of the diner. He registered at least four booths were filled, though he could not seem to focus on the individuals within them, his eyes darting away from direct sight, only gazing at them from his peripherals as if his eyes were introverted beings.

“Dreams are our conscious minds working in sleep,” he recalled the theories and speculations on dreams he read at the library that day. “It draws on memories and senses to create images.”

Her smile was wide from ear to ear. “Mmm-hmm,” she said as she gleefully watched him go through his thinking process.

“And memories can sometimes be mistaken for visions or things happening in the present, like Déjà vu.” He felt as if he was starting back a rusty old car, the engine that is his mind whirring in creaks to work. The pain of his stump clouding his thinking. He turned back to the girl. “So... this dream scape is based on my old memories?”

She clapped happily as he reached the conclusion. “Bravo! I am genuinely impressed.”

“Wait,” he stopped her celebration. “But that barn from last night, I’ve never been there before.”

“Of course not. You’re not the only one asleep now are you? Sleep is just a way for your consciousness to view all the could, should, would and have been in your life. Like-”

“Alternate universes?” he cut in.

“Whao, you are really good,” she replied, genuinely surprised.

“It doesn’t make sense. How is this possible?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who are you?”

“No idea,” she turned to investigate her nails which were all well kept and bone white. “But you should run.”

“What?” just as he said that, the bells that signalled a new customer rang as the double doors swung opened. He spun in his seat, only to see his father, golden haired, wearing a brown polo shirt, black and white chequered shorts and sandals standing at the archway, scanning the diner.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Dad?” Tim voiced out, but the man seemed not to hear him.

Joshua Kleve headed for one of the empty booths and sat down. One of the waitress, a woman with long maroon hair, approached him with a menu in hand to take his order. From where he sat, Tim could not see her face.

In a rare display, his father smiled. One so toothy and full of joy Tim almost could not recognise the man. “Hey there, nice seeing you again.” his father’s voice boomed in his mind loudly as if it were amplified by a speaker.

“Don’t know why you keep acting surprised,” the woman replied. Tim felt he heard that voice before, but with the murkiness of the situation, he could not quite put a finger on it. “You come here pretty much everyday.”

“Well, the food here is something worth living for,” Tim had always thought his dad was a terrible liar.

The waitress giggled. “Then that would make you a very simple man.”

“How so?”

“Well,” the waitress placed an arm on her waist and another under her chin, apparently in thought. “I’ve always thought the worth of a person was less what they’re willing to live for and more what they’d die for.”

“I never took you for a hippy,” Josh joked.

“Shut up,” the waitress said laughingly, pushing his shoulder.

All of a sudden, Tim felt the hair on the back of his neck stand. His father seemed to be continuing his conversation with the waitress but Tim could not hear Josh’s voice, with the man sounding distant, like he was talking from the end of a long tunnel. The teen turned back to the counter to find the girl in white gone like before. In her stead was an old lady.

The woman looked to be in her late 70s, her face wrinkled and skin dried, though she had the look of a caring Grandmother with her soft smile. Her hair was as white and curly as cotton candy, lips weathered and cracked. Wearing a red-white floral dress, her plump body looked to be more accustomed to the seat of a rocking chair or floating around the kitchen baking cookies than to be serving in a diner.

The Grandmother asked, “Hungry?” before sliding a plate of sandwich across the counter to him.

“Uh...no thanks mam, I’m fine,” as Tim said it though, he found his hand picking up the sandwich and taking a bite from it. “Phwat thergh fook?” he spoke through the chewing.

“See? You are hungry,” the kind tone felt malicious, echoing in his ears as he noticed for the first time that her eyes were black, like her eyeballs had been replaced with onyx beads. “Here, have some more.”

He stuffed the rest of the bread into his mouth, the fresh lettuce and succulent ham engulfed his sense of taste. Almost as soon as the bread left the plate, a bowl of fries were pushed in its place. Even with just one hand, he was stuffing his mouth at such a speed he could no longer talk through the mash of food built up.

“Stop!”

He tried to think, but the taste of the food was overwhelmingly delicious. Every bite seemed to excite his senses like an orgasm of taste.

The old lady smiled, her grin showed her missing half her teeth. “Eat up now boy.”

Saliva drooled from the corner of Tim’s lips, his stump of a right arm swung desperately to stop the binge episode that had taken him. He didn’t choke. Couldn’t choke. The food slid down his throat with such ease it burnt his lungs.

Cake. Tarts. Sushi. Noodles. His eyes watered as dishes after dishes were served by the Grandmother, always smiling, her eyes black as the night staring at him with broken teeth. His waist stung as his belt tightened around it. No. His stomach was expanding against his pants. Head spinning, ears ringing, Tim wanted to hurl but the constant consumption prevented him from doing so.

I gotta move or I’m gonna die!

His muscles were tensed from the pain of the experience, his mind dizzy from his senses being overloaded. His surroundings blurred as he was about to pass out when his feet slipped from the footrest, knocking against the wooden back board of the bar.

It’s moving?

Without thinking further in the how, he raised his legs against the backboard and pushed his seat away from the table. Food spewing from his mouth as he fell, he landed hard on his back with a loud slam, painfully swallowing down a large chunk of food as he attempted to gasp in pain. The ringing in his ears continued to annoy him.

No time. Move! He screamed in his mind.

Scrambling to his feet, Tim took a quick glance around the diner which had emptied out during his struggle with the force-feeding granny. Between coughs and biles and spits of phlegm, he bolted for the door, tackling it open with such force that the glass cracked on impact against the rubber stopper.

Out on the streets, he hobbled to the closest lamppost for support and vomited over the pavement. His nostrils dripped, eyes seemingly leaked tears, throat burning with stomach acid. Looking back to the diner, he saw the Grandmother slowly walking out from behind the counter, humming a distorted tune of the nursery rhyme There Was an Old Lady who Swallowed a Fly. Panicking, he darted out onto the road, the ringing in his ears growing louder.

He looked right. Looked left. A red sports car. Yellow headlights. A blaring horn. The sound of tires screeching.

XXX

06:45 a.m

11 days earlier

Tim laid on the floor of his room, his shirt drenched in sweat. His blanket had been kicked into a bundle in the corner in the night and his heart was beating light drums at a rock concert, chest rising high with each heavy breath. His ears were still ringing. He was unsure how long he stayed on the floor, contorted in a muscle aching position. Once his heart slowed, he realized the ringing in his ears were that of his alarm clock which automatically stopped.

When everything in him had calmed down, he surveyed his surroundings, only to find nothing out of the ordinary for his small closet-sized room. He breathed in deep to calm himself and swung his body forward to sit up. A sharp pain flashed into his ribs, forcing his body to tense and his back to arch in agony. The pain was so great, he could have sworn he was hit by a car.