Fate in a Sphere

He threw open the heavy metal door and flung himself inside the cold, dank room. Thunder shook the hollow corners of the abandoned warehouse while lighting cracked its windows. He crawled across the floor. The frail cotton shirt rubbed against the steel floor, tugging at what little threads still held the piece together. Crunching over beds of broken glass, he drug himself into a corner of that warehouse, shivering from the rain water and fear that trickled down his spine. He apprehensively picked back the shards of jeans that bit into the fresh wound on his left leg. He screeched in pain as the denim tore away what was left of his muscle to reveal a crimson-wet bone.
The man sat back and pounded his dirty fist against the wall of the building, redirecting the agony to his frost-bitten knuckles. Once he stabilized enough to ignore the searing pain, he examined the room he had stumbled into. Or, at least, he attempted to. The man couldn’t see three feet from his outstretched leg. Swearing, he gripped a piece of shattered glass until it burst open his palm, allowing hot blood to stream down his forearm. Rain incessantly pattered on the steel roof of the building, throbbing against his blackened ears. A bolt of lightning light up the room, revealing a small yet sturdy old warehouse that was littered with glass and wood.  
He sat his head against the steely corner and prepared for a dreary, frigid night. He shut his eyes, longing for the fire and blankets he had kept while living under the bridge. The icy draft gripped the hole in his leg, and he cursed the gang that had driven him from his home, and the pack of dogs that had been gnawing on his flesh. He settled down and prepared himself for a fitful night of sleep when he heard a noise. It sounded like a heavy ball being rolled toward his feet, echoing off the empty walls.
In a flash, the man opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of shadows retreating behind the stacks of wood. Tentatively, he tore his eyes away from the black room and glimpsed at what had hit his hand. It was a Magic 8 Ball. His heart beat in his throat.
“Who’s there?” he coughed, his icy breath scratching his lungs.
The building answered with a barrel drum of thunder.
His breathing picked up. He could feel the sweat beginning to pool on his lips, melting the ice that clung to his beard.
“Show yourself!” he demanded to the empty room.
All he could see was his breath of fog dissipating in front of his mouth.
He calmed his hysterical heart and sat his head back against the corner of the wall. He examined the toy in his hands, occasionally glancing up hoping to spot any snickering children or ghastly spook. It was smooth and cool to the touch. He brought it close to his mouth, until the plastic brushed against his chapped and bleeding lips. In an effort to calm himself, he began to ask the thing questions.
“Will I ever get a job?”
He laughed as the small triangle appeared on the screen: “Very doubtful”.
“Will I ever get married?”
“My sources say no.”
“Does my mother wonder about me?”
“Don’t count on it.”
He scoffed and considered throwing the thing across the room. Rolling the toy between his hands, he decided to further interrogate his newfound bedmate.
“Am I a man?”
“Most likely, yes.”
“Am I twenty-six?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Do I have a beard?”
“Yes definitely.”
The man glared at the ball, perplexed by its accuracy. Minutes later, a bolt of lightning stuck the room and he watched with growing fear as the shadows darted out of the light. He roared with all his ferocity and screeched that the shadows tell him their names. The only answer he heard was his pulse throbbing behind his eyes. With a shaky breath, the man whispered to the Magic 8 Ball:
“Am I alone?”
“Better not tell you now.”
The man caught the whimper that tickled his neck and swallowed it. His pulse beat rapidly through his body and his sweat bled icy cold through his skin. He forced himself to look up from the toy, frightfully starring into the cloak of darkness before him. He raised his ragged breath, breathing out his next question so inaudible that only he, the ball, and the shadows of the warehouse could hear:
“Will I survive this night?”
“Outlook not so good.”