"And the winning numbers are one, one, four, eight, seven, and... nine!"

The man looked at his ticket. Carefully, like a grade-schooler first learning how to count, he mumbled in his mouth. 

"One... one... four... eight... seven... nine."

He looked up to the ceiling. His eyes pointed at the old, rusting fan barely generating any light breeze. The gaze stuck in that direction for a while. Then, he looked down at his ticket one more time. Again, his mouth mumbled as he dragged his finger across that two-by-four piece of wrinkled paper. 

"One... one... four... eight... seven... nine."

Silence followed. His breathing rose slowly, then stopped, then skyrocketed. He began to smile, although very slightly, as if he was afraid, afraid that his hope would be killed if he ever dared to set it up so high, just like so many times before. 

He jumped up from his crooked chair, half-covered with dust. His pupil began to dilate. His heart was uncontrollable. He clenched his fists, as if to keep his physical body from exploding from the violent storm of emotions inside. He began to punch the air repeatedly. Then, with a scream, he banged his hands against his chest, running and jumping like a child. 

After about ten minutes, he sat down again, exhausted. He reached the counter above him and grabbed his phone. With his fingers still shaking, he dialed.

"Hello?"

The man couldn't control his emotions. Everything deep inside him was released as an avalanche of words and cries. It was like he was trying to hold back a horrible hiccup, all while riding a roller coaster. Words kept coming out. He partly spoke, partly screamed.

"I... I did it, Mark!" He stuttered. "I have the money now! We can treat her now! Finally! Finally! Oh, thank God! Oh, thank you, Lord Almighty! Everything! I put everything I had in this, and He has finally blessed me! Oh, thank you, God!"

The other side stayed silent while the man's voice flooded the phone line. 

"Wait... John..." A reply, amidst this ocean of excitement. It was quickly drowned out beneath the waves of sentences. The barber continued to talk.

"You know what? This calls for some celebration. I'm getting Arlene. You should join too. Come to my place at around seven, ok?"

"Wait, John. Let me..."

The barber hung up. He sat there for a minute or two, contemplating what had just occurred to him. His heart started to slow down. He smiled and stood up. He checked his pocket. The ticket was still there. He blew a sigh of relief. He stepped outside the shop. He checked his pocket one more time to assure himself. Then, with a light melody between his lips, he began to stroll down the streets. The sun hit a bit harsher for this time of year...

A policeman stopped him.

"I'm sorry, sir, this area is closed down for investigation. Can you please take a different route?"

The barber stared at the officer, confused.

 

"Investigation? What investigation? Look, I don't want any trouble here. I live in the building. I just want to get a quick change of clothes and take my wife to dinner, that's all. I know this isn't the best neighborhood, so I don't want to bother you too much, but...I just wanna get home, that's all. Can't you just let me go in there for just around twenty minutes? I promised I'll be quick and won't do anything."

The officer gazed at the barber. He didn't know what was the correct way to respond. 

"Sir... I'm not sure how to tell you this... but... nobody lives here anymore." The officer replied, trying his best to be respectful to the old man.

"What are you talking about? I have been living in it for the past thirty years. Though with some recent luck, maybe not for much longer. Now, won't you just let me in already? " The old man started to lose his temper.

"Sir, please calm down. I'm sorry, but I can't let you pass through this site."

"What? Why would you..."

"John!"

A voice from behind. The barber turned around. It was his brother.

"Mark! I was just trying to get home, but for some reason, this man here won't let me pass."

His brother stayed silent. He walked towards the old barber and softly put his hand on his shoulder.

"John..." He paused for a while. "Arlene... she's... gone."

"What?" The barber yelled. His voice trembled. "What are you talking about?"

"John, she has been gone for two weeks now." 

"What?" The barber repeated his question. "This is not a good joke, Mark. How can she be... I just got the money to save her. Her hospital bill is now all covered..."

"John, stop! Your wife is dead!" The brother raised his voice. Tears rolled down his face, bursting through the floodgate. He looked at his dear older brother with his eyes now dyed in red. The two stared at each other in silence. The fog was clearing, slowly, then all at once.

"John, please listen to me. To have a chance of recovery, Arlene needed to have an operation, one that nobody we knew could ever hope to afford. You tried all you could. You sold all your gear, clothes, and belongings. But it was simply too much. Then, you went to those... sharks. Look, I don't know who it was that you turned to, but you dumped it all on those ‘dream tickets'. That was not your money, and you threw it into that delusional pit of yours. And what did you think happened when payment was due? They came when you weren't home and they... they... Had you told her to leave the house a day earlier... or had you found out you won a day earlier... none of this... none of this would have happened. But..."

The brother struggled to find his words. His eyes were tired. There was no more strength for tears.

"Miraculously, you survived the fire after barging in. But... everything else, even that "gift from God" of yours, was gone. All ashes, John. A few days later, when you were still in a coma, Arlene... she passed away. Then... you started to have these... episodes. I tried my best so that you won't have to stay in an asylum, but... You have to stop, John. Please, John! I... I can't keep on doing this anymore! I don't want you to go away, John! Please go back to reality! Arlene... Arlene is gone now! But we're still here. You're still here. But you need to come back to us and stop this psychotic loop!"

The old barber stood there in silence. He looked at his brother. He couldn't feel his brother's hand on his shoulder anymore. No sounds reached his ears. It was just silence. The silence of reality. 

The space around him started to shrink. Everything slowly turned darker. It seemed that this was the real world that he had to face. A void. Pure emptiness. His vocal cord stayed still as he screamed a silent scream, a futile effort to break away from this reality. Then, the world closed in on him before finally collapsing. There was nothing left in his mind. The only colors were black and white, both at the same time. 

The last thing he processed was letting gravity take over. His body felt so heavy, his mind still drifting in space. The ambulance siren tore through the air. Everything seemed so loud now. Too loud. Too bright...

The old barber woke up in his bed. He checked his watch, with all its hands standing still.

The spokesman on the TV picked up the balls from the basket and read them, loud and clear, announcing to the whole world the magnificent fantasy. A tape played too many times. A cruel, over-told joke.

"And the winning numbers are...!"