The Break
The hum of the neon lights overhead blended with the low buzz of the old jukebox in the corner, churning out a tired blues track. Inside the small, musty snooker hall, two men stood at opposite ends of a table bathed in green felt and dim light. The clock above the bar read 1:12 AM.
“Double or nothing,” said Paul, chalking his cue, his grin sharp and challenging.
“You’re on,” replied Darren, rolling his shoulders. “But no whining when I wipe the floor with you.”
They’d been playing for hours. Cigarette butts overflowed the ashtray, and empty beer bottles lined the wall like silent witnesses. This was their routine, their ritual. But tonight, the stakes felt heavier. Maybe it was the rain pounding against the windows, or maybe it was the whiskey burning in their guts.
Paul leaned over and broke. The balls scattered, but something felt… off. The cue ball rolled just shy of perfect aim, clipping the red at a strange angle, sending it spiraling in a jagged, unnatural path. Darren frowned.
“Did you see that?” he asked.
Paul shrugged, watching the balls settle. “Bad felt. This table’s ancient.”
Darren stepped up, eyeing his shot. He lined up, pulled back, and struck. The yellow spun towards the corner pocket, then curved inexplicably away, stopping dead an inch before the drop.
“What the hell?” Darren muttered.
Paul chuckled. “Maybe you’re just rusty.”
“No,” Darren said, his jaw tightening. “It moved. You saw that.”
Paul waved a dismissive hand. “You blaming the balls now? C’mon, take your loss like a man.”
Darren stalked around the table, eyes darting across the arrangement. Something gnawed at him—a feeling like the table was watching him back. He bent down to inspect the yellow. It sat perfectly still, innocent.
“You mess with this table?” Darren asked.
Paul’s grin faltered. “Don’t be stupid.”
The next few shots were the same. Balls rolling unpredictably, veering, slowing, speeding up without explanation. At first it was a joke. Then frustration crept in. Accusations. Darren slammed his cue on the floor.
“You rigged this, didn’t you?” he snapped.
“Rigged?” Paul scoffed. “You’re drunk, mate.”
“You knew I needed that money,” Darren growled. “You always gotta pull some shit, don’t you?”
Paul stood taller, his grin gone, replaced by a dangerous smirk. “Don’t project your failures on me, Darren. It’s not my fault you’re in over your head.”
Darren stepped closer. “Give me the money back.”
“Not a chance.”
The tension snapped. Darren lunged, shoving Paul hard against the table. Paul swung his cue like a bat, cracking it across Darren’s shoulder. Darren staggered, then tackled Paul onto the floor. They grappled, fists flying, curses filling the air.
Somewhere in the struggle, Paul’s hand found a broken cue. A jagged splinter. He swung.
Darren gasped as it tore across his arm. Fury overtook him. His own hand closed around a red ball lying abandoned near his foot. He raised it high and brought it down.
Once. Twice.
The sickening thud silenced the room.
Paul lay still, blood pooling beneath his head, eyes wide and glassy, mouth parted in a last unfinished word.
Darren stumbled back, the ball slipping from his fingers, clattering onto the tile. His chest heaved. His ears rang.
“Oh God,” he whispered.
He looked around. The jukebox had stopped. The rain had quieted. The whole world seemed to hold its breath.
Then, movement.
Darren turned back to the table. Slowly, almost lazily, the cue ball rolled forward an inch. Then another. It tapped against a red, which shivered—and rolled.
No one had touched them.
Darren’s mouth went dry. He stepped closer. One by one, the balls began to shift, turning in place, spiraling in small circles like planets trapped in invisible orbits. The 8-ball spun towards him, stopped at the edge, as if staring back.
“No,” Darren muttered. “No, no, no…”
He wiped his face, blinked hard. The balls had stilled.
Had they moved at all?
He staggered backward, tripping over Paul’s outstretched leg. His stomach churned.
“It was an accident,” he said aloud, to no one. “He attacked me first. It wasn’t…”
The balls clicked. Softly at first, then louder. Rolling, bumping, rearranging. Darren watched in horror as they settled into a perfect formation—the break. Back to the start.
The cue ball rested, waiting.
Darren’s hands trembled. He backed away, toward the door. He couldn’t take his eyes off the table.
Then, from behind him, a whisper.
“Your shot.”
He froze.
Slowly, he turned.
No one was there.
The fifteen red balls, reset on the table, perfectly aligned, ready for the break.
Darren stared, his breath shallow, his mind fraying at the edges. The overhead light flickered once, twice, then held steady.
The balls gleamed beneath it, silent, patient.
And as Darren stepped forward, hand reaching toward the cue, he wondered—was it guilt twisting his mind?
Or had the game only just begun?
