Wake

When the rest of the Illinois men's basketball team arrived at the house the deceased had built, with his own blood, sweat, and tears, they were greeted by several youngsters, running around the lawn littered with tables barefoot, and with smiles plastered on their small faces.

It was not what they expected from a wake at all.

They entered the home's door without anyone coming by to stop them.

What they first saw was a large catering of food, its rich, enticing spices combining to create a wonderful, inviting mix of Mexican food scents on their noses.

A lot of the members of the extended family were gathered around in vigil, sharing stories of the life the deceased had lived as per custom. The air of sorrow was soothed by the funny, and wonderful stories the late Rafael Montero had. Laughs, and smiles, blew away the sensation of loss, replacing it with an unwavering belief that Rafael had changed their lives for the better.

Many of them were drinking tequila, a Mexican spirit, while eating copious amounts of comforting food. Some were dancing to the songs the younger brother, Miguel, had been singing.

No one noticed the arrival of Miguel's visitors, despite the loud quaking of their shoes. Except for the young kids, who were surprised about the massive men that had arrived.

Some of them hid themselves.

Miguel, after belting a low, sorrowful tune, finally noticed that his Illinois family had arrived in full. Tears flowed in his eyes without restraint nor any hint of shame.

"Everyone, these are the rest of my team. The people I share my day to day life up north with." Miguel talked smoothly to his family, while tearing up. He appreciated his coach's and his teammates' supreme gesture, rushing straight here from Boston despite playing a game just last night. Now, his emotions had truly reached its peak.

Miguel's family turned around and gave warm smiles to the newcomers. Coach Roughan, with the help of his team, brought food, flowers, and alms to the family.

Miguel's mother walked up to embrace him. Emotions other than lasciviousness rarely overwhelmed his youngest son, except today, where she'd already seen the full range of his son's expressions.

The four other members of the team that were here earlier, came with several trays containing paper cups of coffee, and some avocado slices.

"What? Y'all are also here?" Khalil whisper shouted from the back of the group.

"Don't disturb their vigil!" Kristian was particular with family events like this one.

Miguel then ran to his team, with heavy steps. He was delighted that his team was here to disperse his burdens, and calm his quaking self-belief.

One by one, they gave their assurances, and apologies to their friend in mourning.

Many of them knew how hard it is to lose someone they loved in death.

Taichi gave his former roommate some of Boston's best store bought lobster mac and cheese, a food he always requested of him. "Here, you creepy bastard, stuff yourself full with it."

His father looked on in pride. At first, he thought that his sleazy, eccentric son would have a hard time getting into the group dynamic of a college varsity team, for his son had always been an outcast in his youth. But it turns out, he underestimated their camaraderie, and his son's social abilities.

He's glad to see his son at the very least finally enjoying his youth away from them.

Rafael would be glowing too for sure wherever he is.

Miguel led his team to the front of his brother's open casket. The embalmed corpse of Rafael was surrounded by flowers, and outside it, were the last set of red boxing gloves he was wearing during his death. There was even one of Miguel's orange Illinois jerseys in there, along with brass knuckles, and Miguel's neck pillow—which he apparently stole from his brother.

Miguel stepped back, still unwilling to look at his brother laying in eternal rest inside the coffin.

Coach Michael talked with Miguel's parents about whatever on the far side of the room.

One by one, his Illini brothers glanced and paid their respects on his elder brother's coffin. They might not know much about how Mexican wakes are done, but they know how to pay their respects to the dead.

Taichi and Samuel, both of which had been his roommates, stayed back with Miguel to console him of his loss. Taichi reminded him that his brother believed in him the most, while Samuel told him that his brother surely would've wanted him to live a life he will never regret.

After that, the team assembled a massive wooden picnic table outside. Where they, in the cloudless, Albuquerque night sky, shared their unhindered emotions despite their tiredness, over some burritos and enchiladas.

All the way until the morning sun poked out over the horizon and it's time to go back home.

***

Noon.

Tremaine Mills' body won't budge however much he tried. His mind was awake, and racing, but his body wouldn't move one bit.

He has a class around this time, in a lecture hall about five minutes away. But his body won't move.

He was mentally exhausted, traumatized even. The fact that Miguel's brother suffered his untimely fate playing the sport he loved attacked Tremaine's mind like invisible, brutal punches to the head. Large beads of sweat were pouring from his temples, and the safe zone that is his bed had become woefully uncomfortable.

Tremaine's mind returned to the day of his demise.

He laid with his back to the cold hardwood court, unmoving, but his mind was picking up everything that was happening around him.

"Medics! Please! He's not breathing!" Tremaine couldn't see a thing, but he could hear the desperation underneath the voice.

"It's a cardiac arrest!"

"CPR!"

He could hear the sound of someone trying their best to resuscitate his chest. Then came the hush of the crowd, that was all around them.

Tremaine let everything play out as it did naturally.

After a couple of minutes of frantic resuscitation attempts, the exasperated medic yelled. "Shit! Still no pulse!"

"Defibrillator!" The league's medic yelled profusely. He also cut the jersey Tremaine was wearing in the middle, before sticking something on two uneven sides of his chest area. He turned on the automated external defibrillator, and waited for a couple seconds for its analysis. "Shock!"

He pressed another button, and electrical shock was delivered to Tremaine's withering body. The shock coursed through every fiber of his body… however…

"Ahhhhhh!" Tremaine woke up gasping for dear life. It was just like the first time he died. He thought maybe he's back inside his 37 year old body, and it was all just a dream…

But here he was… inside his dorm room… in his 17 year old body... late for class…

"Shit! I'll think about this later!" Tremaine didn't care how he looked, and grabbed his phone and wallet, before rushing out for class.

***

Extras:

The large lecture hall door opened a tiny bit, just enough for the door not to squeak loudly, and Tremaine tried his hardest to fit in the middle of it.

His usual seat was smack dab in the middle of the hall, a row of seats people call the varsity seats. Only because most of the time, members of the varsity populate the area.

Well, he can't get there anymore.

So he ducked, and decided to go on the right side, where there are vacant spaces.

He hid behind a seat, and waited until the associate professor turned the other way before he dashed to the seat he's been eyeing. A row with only five seats and only one vacant seat.

Go!

In his mind, a mental gun shot was fired.

He madly walked the twenty step distance, and crushed it. But just as he was about to sit down..

"So, random US historical fact time! Who's the president of the Confederate States of America?"

Nobody raised their hands, so like a blur, the professor swiveled his hand and found one person sneaking into his class 25 minutes late.

"You there, in the orange Illini varsity jacket!"

Uhhhhhhhhhhhh fuck I'm screwed.

I shouldn't have gone to class.