Justin stumbled back to the shack, his body aching from the day's labor, his mind reeling from what had just happened. The book—Days of Future Past—rested against his chest, pulsing faintly with an eerie warmth.
The air inside the shack was thick with the usual stench of liquor and burnt foil, his grandmother passed out on the mattress, muttering in her sleep. He didn't wake her. He didn't need another knife wound.
Slumping onto his makeshift bed, Justin finally opened the book.
Every single page was blank.
His heart sank.
"What the hell…?" he muttered, flipping through the empty pages. Was this some kind of joke? Some kind of twisted hallucination?
Then, letters began to burn into the first page, appearing like ink seeping through paper.
The Rules:
1. This book has no end; its pages are infinite, allowing you to draw freely.
2. You may draw the future, but your hand may only leave the page three times per drawing.
Justin stared at the second rule, his brows furrowing.
"Three times?" he whispered. That meant drawing wouldn't be easy. He'd have to plan every line carefully, or he'd mess up whatever future he was trying to create.
His eyes flicked back to his grandmother's still form. She hadn't moved. Not even a twitch.
Maybe this really was all in his head.
So, to prove it was nonsense, he drew.
A lazy, careless scribble of himself on the page. And above it, he sketched a crude, heavy rock, hovering right over his drawn self.
Nothing happened.
Justin scoffed, shutting the book. "Thought so."
Then—
BAM.
A solid weight smashed onto his skull.
His vision exploded with white light as pain cracked through his head like thunder. The force sent him sprawling onto the wooden floor.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
---
Hours Later…
Justin's eyes fluttered open. His skull throbbed, his vision swam, and for a second, he thought he was dead.
But no—he was still in the shack.
His grandmother hadn't moved from her usual drug-induced slumber. The book, however, lay open beside him, as if mocking him.
Shakily, he grabbed the pencil and tried to draw again—something, anything—
But as soon as his pencil touched the page, more words burned themselves into existence.
"One may only draw and predict, once in four months, lest they be met with grave affronts."
Justin's fingers froze.
A rhyme? A damn rhyme?
He clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling inside him. He needed more time, more attempts—four months was too damn long!
But the book had spoken.
Gritting his teeth, Justin shoved the book under his bed, burying it beneath his tattered clothes. His grandmother wouldn't find it. She didn't care enough to search through his things.
For now, there was nothing else to do but wait.
And so, he counted the days.
But life? Life didn't wait for him.
---
Month 2: The Cost of Poverty
The city was merciless to people like Justin. He walked home from work one evening, his arms sore, his pockets nearly empty, when a vendor selling hot meat skewers caught his eye.
He hadn't eaten since morning.
Digging into his pocket, he pulled out what little he had—barely enough for one skewer.
The vendor sneered at him, snatching the money. "Took you long enough."
Justin frowned. "What?"
The man grabbed the skewer, then deliberately dropped it into the dirt.
"Oops." The vendor smirked. "No refunds."
Justin stared at the ruined food, his stomach aching, his fingers twitching with rage. He wanted to punch this bastard's teeth in.
But he didn't.
Because the second he clenched his fists, the vendor's friends stepped forward—three of them, all bigger than him, all waiting for an excuse to beat him senseless.
So, he turned away.
Hungry.
Defeated.
Still waiting for his fourth month.
---
Month 4: A Debt of Blood
Justin dragged himself home, exhaustion gripping every part of his body. The foreman had pushed him even harder than usual today—forcing him to work unpaid overtime, saying he'd be fired if he refused.
His fingers were raw, his shoulders screamed, but he didn't complain.
When he stepped into the shack, his grandmother was waiting.
A rare thing.
She stared at him through half-lidded, bloodshot eyes, something dark and mean twisting her mouth.
"Where's the money?" she slurred.
Justin sighed, tossing his meager earnings onto the table. "There."
Before he could sit down, her hand lashed out—smacking him across the face.
His head snapped to the side. The room went silent.
Then she laughed.
"That's all you got?" she scoffed. "Pathetic."
Justin's fingers curled into fists. But he didn't fight back.
Because tomorrow, it would be the fourth month.
And tomorrow—everything would change.