A few hours later, it was almost Christmas Eve.
I hadn't stepped outside since then.
I lingered in my room, uninterested yet half-expecting the call of my auntie for me to join the revelry downstairs, where they were still putting the finishing touches on the decorations on all the walls, picking out whatever music to set the mood, and, in general, basking in the warmth of my gathered family: uncles, grandparents, cousins…
My cousins are here too? Ugh, what a pain.
In the meantime, to stave off boredom from completely destroying my senses, acting as the epitome of the new generation of intellectual revolutionaries, I decided to do something notoriously pioneering: doomscrolling. Idly rambled through the blazing blue glow of my phone. Sitting at my desk, legs crossed, my feet planted on its wooden surface.
What else I could do, honestly? I scrolled aimlessly through a parade of photo blogs, edits, and rage-bait posts. Ow, man, I love TikTok—never change, big dawg. Still, all of that seemed to mock my posture, so I switched to another platform. Instagram, at this time of the year, was a gallery of joy and contentment. In every story, my classmates, within their blissful, slightly-crooked rectangular frames, seemed to be having a great time.
Some are posting photos and videos of family dinners; here and there, the "laboriously" decorated streets outside, draped in worn-out garlands, tinsel sparkles, and with the heart-warming little-to-no snow; and, obviously, there were those flaunting their girlfriends... Actually, fuck you! Fuck these guys, I really don't want to see that shit. Isn't that what the "Close Friends" feature is for? Why in public? You're not a celebrity! Tsk, should I just block them...?
Nah, I'm just whining for the sake of it—good for them, I guess.
Shortly after, a notification popped up. It snapped me out of my trance—a message from the overly cheerful one: [Yoooo!! Answer. I already got the game lololol], he wrote, and his excitement was practically leaping off the screen. If he sent me a voice message, you can't even imagine. I should turn down the volume just in case.
Then came another message, followed by an attached image: [Look!!!]
He showed me his filthy thumb—with a blackened fingernail—clutching the garish game-case. The cover featured that cloyingly sweet, "more" art-style illustration: girls piled one on top of another, like if it was those bad Photoshop job or a Marvel movie poster—all surrounding the words "Heart Breaker," rendered in an obnoxiously ultra-flashy font like a neon, Cyberpunk 2077 sign.
What the fuck is this? Was my immediate reaction.
[What the fuck is this?] I texted back.
[???😭 Tf is wrong with u?? Dont u see ts a masterpiece? Can't you tell?] He shot back instantly.
[Ahhh mb. Maybe I've gone blind. Sorry man. Send me another photo but this time, of the actual game you're talking about tho.]
[Gtfo] Awww....
[Aight fine. But bro I can't believe a piece of shi game like this even exists. How does it even have a physical release wth???]
[So what?? Now we can actually play it properly.]
[Nah.]
[fym nah?]
[All I see is some janky, worthless game you wasted your money on. It's not even worth it] I replied, unimpressed.
Despite my indifference, Isaac was unwilling to concede defeat: [WAIT WAIT PLSss pretty plss] He begged, attaching a bizarre sticker. Then he added, [just this once, try it out. I swear on my mother soul u gonna love it fr pls🙏]
[Your mom is dead now brochaho] I replied dryly. Then, without much thought, I added, [Whatever. When are you giving it to me?]
[I knew u loved me🥹] He proclaimed triumphantly. His ridiculous words didn't even warrant a response from me. Moments later, another message popped up: [Ill drop it off now, I think]
[What?] I typed back, perplexed.
[yeah] Came his curt reply.
[How?]
[by pulling up to ur house dumb bitch] He said, as if the answer was self-evident.
I couldn't help but feel exasperated by his sudden decision to visit me. After all, it was Christmas Eve, and I knew he'd be with his family all day, so why now? Is he going to sneak out—won't he get scolded for that? Don't you care about the Christmas spirit, you phony?
I considered asking him those kinds of questions; however, I knew he'd just reply with something like, "Because I can." Instead, I opted for a more practical and decisive approach: [Well, idgf come then. I'll wait for you at the door]
[Aight!!!1 Wait for me]
Isaac was nothing if not persistent.
Over half an hour had passed when the disharmonious chime of the doorbell finally rang in the living room of my house, breaking the immutability of their feast. It wasn't exactly a gracious peal, like the doorbells in New York or in "Home Alone" but a discordant, screeching metallic clang that tore at your eardrums just like a fork scraping against a ceramic plate. My family hasn't done anything about fixing it.
Meanwhile, I swear under oath that I made an effort to try, but I couldn't do it: I didn't get up; I stayed lying down. So, I just stared at the ceiling, waiting for it to stop on its own. It didn't: of course that fuck would keep ringing until I opened the door for him. I have guests too, you stupid idiot! Don't do that, I thought.
Thus, reluctantly, I dragged myself off the bed—despite my earlier promise to "wait by the door," which had clearly been a lie told to end a conversation—and trudged toward the staircase battling between low-iron inertia and non-essential duty of having that crappy game on my desk.
Ah… As I reached the base of the stairs, I spotted my auntie opening the front entry. And there, framed by the biting winter air, stood Isaac, holding the game in both hands. His thick winter jacket and knitted beanie couldn't hide the unrestrained excitement gleaming in his face.
«Take it, man!» He announced with a nerdy grin, so wide it threatened to split his face in two. «Make sure to complete it entirely. I'll be seeing you in like a week, alright?»
I let it show, instinctively—unable to fully suppress such: a stifled, weary sigh. It's not that I looked down on the game or the gesture; it's just that… I don't know. Maybe it was his enthusiasm—contagious, yet simultaneously exhausting.
Still, I relented, murmuring a quiet, rudimentary: «Alright. Thanks, man,» as I took the cold plastic case from his outstretched hands, and the cover art... Honestly, that's a joke. A total joke. A mockery. They're laughing at me, it seemed to mock me entirely—all pastel smiles and bubble-letter optimism and a title written in balloon-style lettering. It's like those prank-type book cover-and-title. What if I look this shit up on YouTube—? Does something like that even exist? Fucking hell...
With his mission accomplished, Isaac turned on his heel and disappeared into the wintry, night environment before we exchange one final, friendly hand-shake. Well, what can I do? I give up. Once I had it, I retreated to my room and booted up the console. As for now, there's nothing for me to do: my family is back in the living room, and I don't feel like socializing. I'll join them once it's 11 o'clock.
Okay, let's begin! The premise was straightforward: you played as a handsome protagonist navigating the labyrinthine intricacies of romance—a domain I had yet to truly explore but I was never one to back down from a challenge—and that's it. Game over. Do I jerk off? Just kidding.
Minutes later, once I delved deeper into the game, it became glaringly obvious how uninspired the character designs were. Hmm, what? Hey, how long did it take for you to reach that conclusion? And why bring up such a critique right after such a friendly exchange with your pal? Didn't you promise—? Sorry, but it's the truth. "The world doesn't care about your feelings", some prick.
For starters, look at the characters, dog: each one is one-dimensional. They're recycled stereotypes pulled straight from their same tired, copy-paste, low-effort, "industry-plant", wide-open-anus style of Japanese visual novel: the shy girl, the popular guy, the aloof boy, the, the, the... You name it, really. Honestly, this lineup was entirely predictable. And that's exactly why I hate it!
On top of that, the dialogue lacked ingenuity and wit, adhering to predictable patterns ripped straight from a cookie-cutter romantic-comedy anime. I mean, for instance: Anime dialogue tends to follow a rigid, pre-set format—relying on exaggerated sentence-ending particles and specific jargon that instantly telegraphs a character's age, gender, or social archetype... I'm such a fucking geek, but dude! It's so blatant! This is nothing like real life, or even the dialogue you'd find in films or theater. I don't know, it's just fucking terrible!
And, as if to drive the point home, the situation I currently find myself in, perfectly encapsulates one of those interactions. Yes, right now! Picture this: there's this... girl—What's her name again? No clue. I haven't been paying attention to the names. Let's just call her Derpina, and it's one of those encounters with a girl who's clearly smitten with us, the protagonist.
For some context, I ventured into the city—surprisingly, we had the option to "walk" around various locations, though "walking" was, in reality, more like teleportation—and I stepped into a café, one of the game's available spots, where I ran into this bratty girl. Apparently, this interaction could be classified as a "side quest," so I felt compelled to approach her.
So... The conversation kicked off in a really awkward manner. It was painfully clear it was intended to be funny for the players, I suppose, but I didn't find it the least bit amusing. IAnd I'm certainly not going to repeat it. And how does she respond? With a scowl and this snotty line:
[Yuri: "Oh, it's you. What do you want?"]
Mm-hmm, I see.
Go ahead and suppress me all you want. Do your thing. But can you actually feel the charm you're supposedly radiating? Because I certainly can't. Then again, however, isn't this supposed to be the point of the game? It is suppposed to be the whole point of the game! That's how she's supposed to act: like a detached, passionless little dick.
But I couldn't care less. Now, here are the options displayed on the screen:
[Option 1:Apologize for the teasing and offer to accompany her for a coffee.]
[Option 2:Mock her and challenge her to a battle of wits.] What the fuck does that even mean?
[Option 3: Persist and express your curiosity about her.] What the fuck does that even mean, x2?
Wowwww, what shitty options. Although, it's delightfully transparent whatsoever. Hmmm, I wonder what answer would be the most convenient? Babababah.... Eeny, meeny, miny, moe... Option thr—Option one, you idiot! Naturally. Let's see how this plays out, shall we?
["Ah, my mistake, Yuri-san. It wasn't my intention to strike a nerve," you reply, feigning innocence. "Why don't we set aside our usual banter for a moment? How about I treat you to a coffee and keep you company? I'm sure you'd like that I could help in your studies. I wouldn't like seeing you feeling down once our examns starts."]
["Huh? 'Feeling down'? What's gotten into your head? Like hell I'd be feeling down! And I've told you before—don't call me by my name. It's disgusting."]
[Yuri hesitates for a moment. A faint, reddish flush touches her cheeks before she lets out an exasperated sigh. "Fine, whatever! Do what you want. And don't go thinking this means I enjoy your company. I just need someone to pay for my food, now that you're here," she huffs, shoving her book into her bag and rising from her seat with a grumble.]
...Alright, fuck this guy.
I'll admit, there was something almost gallant about the line; chivalrous, in that overly rehearsed way most fictional men are written to be and then could make edits off of him. Yet, I think it also carried that stomach-turning aroma of creepiness and pretentious gentleness... Or maybe it's the aftertaste of too much idealism, long expired and poorly preserved. An uncanny valley. Was it really creepy? I don't know.
Nonetheless, on a side note: honestly, is this truly what boys are into these days? Girls who seemingly can't manage a shred of honest communication and who constantly belittle you? Like "Mommy, mommy's good boy!" Or some shit. How sad for them. If this girl's affection is the prize, then this has to be the slowest, most tedious lottery imaginable.
Sure, someone might insult me, but in the way friends do. But it's quite clear that the contempt is mutual and, surprisingly, affectionate, right? If some random-ass chick looks me dead in the eye and tells me to kill myself—well, offense taken, buddy! That's not tender at all. I'll kill myself and write a letter blaming you for my very existence. "IT'S YOUR FAULT, YURI IT'S YOUR FAULT, YURI IT'S YOUR FAULT, YURI" I'll print it out and distribute it all over the school. So much for your future—fuck you!
Furthermore, I couldn't help but notice—redundancy intended, because I don't care!—the blatant lack of originality and the infuriatingly predictable plot. So far, it was the same time-worn narrative of boy meets, woos, accidentally touches her boob, and wins over girl. Nothing more!
The system itself was insultingly recyclable, you see? I mean, you will just check the status/information of some unknown, analyzing her attributes like intelligence, kindness, courage, luck, and last but certainly not least, affection. Then, you go around chatting up any other bitch until they all inevitably fall for you. Then it's off to the next one. Yeah, I don't know what could go from this premise.
So far, we've got: the shy one with a Bob haircut, who's eternally apologetic. Then there's—well, I haven't actually met her yet, but the cover features a tanned, sporty type... And what do you want to bet she's super competitive, with a personality that revolves entirely around phrases like "Energy! Come on! Let's go! That's it? You can do it, senpai!"? I'd bet everything on it.
Let's see, I've also talked to: The geeky girl with glasses—the "mad scientist" type; The gyaru—well, sort of a gyaru—who's annoyingly loud but has a sweet side; The girl who's friendly and chatty with everyone, but acts all cutesy and flirty only with me; The "yandere", her look is a bit... I mean, why? The airhead and clumsy with big hoonkers-boonkers? And the foreigner, who is—surprise, surprise—German. How's that for global innovation? It's as if Germany were the only European country that exists in the eyes of Japan! All that's missing is Russia, and the set would be complete.
Surprisingly, there wasn't any trope that had the label "childhood friend". And which, by "label", I meant they're saying it themselves and that's their whole role. The same goes for the "little sister" or the "cousin" or some any other family member involved... Actually, that's a bit of a relief. At least this isn't your average Japanese incest game.
And, of course, the "most beautiful girl on school": a member of the student council, extraordinarily good in all subjects and sports, the archetype of an ice queen whose soul thaws only for the player's affectional persistency.
Aww, how sweet.
"An unparalleled experience," it said on the back cover. I'm dead. The choices presented in the game are limited and seem to have little to no meaningful impact on how the story unfolds. "Unparalleled," huh! Where is this story even going? What's the point of it all?
It was frustrating to go through the motions of selecting options, only to discover they all seemed to lead to the same insubstantial cul-de-sac—I'm having the dictionary right at my hand to diss this fucking game. Like, there's no risk, no randomness, not even true failure, no-nothing! Nothing, really! We only have the illusion of multiple choices, that's it!
There was nothing unique or thought-provoking about it, not even any excitement or frustration in hearing the story. The only frustrating thing is having to play it. I was right all along!
As a self-proclaimed intellectual, I yearned for something that could challenge my perceptions and emotions, something with greater depth and complexity in its interactions that show closeness without consequence. That's not how relationships works...!
...Despite my criticisms, I couldn't entirely dismiss the effort that went into it.
The 3D graphics were respectable, yeah; It was a sort of Yandere Simulator, but with better rendering. Or Zenless Zone Zero, maybe. The anime-style character sequences were dynamic, and the music was hauntingly beautiful. Additionally, despite the clichéd portrayals of the characters, a small handful of them were at least respectably decent—in terms of friendly interactions, that is.
What's more, there's still a cycle you're obligated to follow. Time progresses in the game and there's a seasonal checklist to do: There's the Golden Week, the School Trip Arc [with the shared, public hot-springs], The School Culture Festivals, Halloween [for some reason], and I'm here on the Winter Break...
Wow, it's too much.
But you know what that also means? Fan-service: suggestive and flirtatious poses from all the women in the field—age doesn't matter, of course—wearing a numberless of different outfits corresponding each event, including the teachers. It this shit a Gacha Game too? I'm dumbfounded, flabbergasted, uhhh.... Yeah, you know what I mean. Isaac, you impressed me with this one.
But, sorry—I skipped most of those "arcs" because I felt they were dispensable. Likewise, I'd hit "skip" whenever the dialogue between the protagonist and the main vixens resumed, because the illusion had simply vanished. It would've been better if they'd included some ecchi. Hah! Sayonara!
«...Ah, my throat».
I'm going to get some water.
***
As my musings grew increasingly obscure, the hands of the clock continued their stealthy advance, until, in an instant, the house transformed into a desolate sanctuary of silence.
The merrymaking bustle downstairs vanished like a trail of gunpowder, as effortlessly as smoke consumed by the atmosphere. No-no-no, I'm wrong. It wasn't a, actual gradual slowdown—like a truck braking—but something so instantaneous, as if a military commander had ordered his entire troop to fall silent. It creeped me out a bit. Were they really that obedient?
I hadn't even noticed when it happened. That alone should have been a warning. Becoming so engrossed in anything, especially something as superficial as this horse-shit of a game, was unusual for me. I rarely gave fiction the power to hold my attention. When was the last time that happened? In 2018 with "Darling in the Franxx," and never since.
I even lost track of time, although, isn't that obvious? Staring at the screen, drooling like an autist. How long, then? How much: Two hours? Three? Perhaps more. The clock face read 11:45. That's so strange! No, it's absurd! What the fuck, I could have sworn it was barely nine o'clock... Didn't my aunt call me to come downstairs? I didn't hear her. Shit... I don't even remember what I did these last few hours, other than play this fuck-ass game.
And yet, something else was wrong, because as I strained my ears, a crawling awareness settled in: something didn't add up. The whole house felt sterile. Lifeless and pulse-less. Empty. The void. A black hole. The house was suspiciously quiet. A surprise party? It's Christmas! Surprise, Jesus Christ!
Then, without warning—[BANG!]—like a bolt of lightning, an earsplitting crash erupted, ricocheting through the floorboards, making my bones jolt in shock, and the fine hairs at the nape of my neck stood rigid, bristling with unease. What the hell was that?!
It happened outside—a tire blowing out? Fireworks? It sounded so close. It couldn't have happened inside, could it? Did one of my idiot cousins set off a firework in the house? Or did a piece of furniture fall over, or maybe a glass shattered? These possibilities raced through my mind, but the cacophony that followed quickly dispelled any hope that this was just a coincidence.
[BANG!] Another noise. And then another, and another.
You gotta be fucking kidding me...!
These were no ordinary sounds, I realized with a mounting sense of horror that it was the unmistakable discharge of a firearm, and with each shot, the plaintives cries of the ill-fated people below grew louder and more desperate. My breathing grew heavier, and my eyes darted erratically around the room. A deep-seated panic clawed at my chest as the gravity of the situation sank in.
Someone is shooting. Someone is shooting inside... In my house, in my house? Not outside? No, it's my house. Is this a nightmare? It isn't; I can feel myself touching the floor, and my dry lips ache. Yes, this is the floor, and there's blood in my mouth. Had someone broken into our home? Why were they shooting? Who are they shooting at? Were they shooting at my family? Why my house? Why my family?! Why?! Why?!
Without hesitation, I fumbled for my cell phone. Ah, shit: the passcode… God fucking dammit, my fingers are shaking. Hurry the fuck up, for God's sake. Okay, once I unlocked it, I dialed 911; however, just before I was startled by the telltale sound, one all too familiar in my house: the stairs…
Stairs... Someone was on the stairs, stepping on the stairs. And that creaking sound was very slow, cautious, and delicate, as if the person climbing the steps were trying to pass… Unnoticed?
Oh, son of a bitch. My heart plummeted—someone was coming to the second floor.
My instincts took over, urging me to seek shelter and hide from whoever was approaching. I rose to my feet and darted to the narrow space between my wardrobe and the doorway; I slipped into the cramped alcove, positioning myself behind the partially ajar door to conceal my body into the darkness.
Clutching my cell phone tightly, I held it up to my nose and offered a silent prayer to any god. In fact, to any deity of any existing faith who might hear me—fervently imploring that my room remain undiscovered. But, unfortunately, fate seemed to have no intention of granting me mercy; my prayers were in vain, and the gods turned a deaf ear to my pleas for safety, for in the next moment I sensed the intruder's presence. Ah… Yes, there he is.
Then, as he slipped into my room, my eyes were inexorably drawn to the sinister little silhouette of an object in his hands.
A fucking gun!
Hmmm, of course. Of course he'd have one.
Oh, my! Hah, just look at him. This mother-fucker was laughably small: a tiny, grotesque figure, a folkloric dwarf. This creature, no taller than my desk, positioned himself in the center of the room. For some reason, its movements had the measured grace of a prowling feline; it scanned its surroundings like a CCTV camera, as if the commotion downstairs had never even happened.
What is he trying to do now?
What is this fucking r*tard trying to do? He's moving towards my belongings, inspecting each object as if gauging its value. Is it going to rob me, huh? What the fuck is a grown-ass man trying to rob a kid's room? Huh, its fingers traced the edges of my prized Legos... Alright. Fumbling around won't do it any good. In its idiocy, it stopped to examine the spines of my books, then started fiddling with the buttons on my PS4 controller—like a kid at Christmas. Wait, it is Christmas.
From my hidden vantage point, however, I analyzed the situation: He's distracted, should I do something? He's distracted, should I run? He's distracted, should I attack? Could I even stand a chance against him, given his size? But judging by appearance could be dangerous; he's probably a professional in Chinese martial arts. I see the ghost of the landlady from "Kung Fu Hustle," she's warning me right now.
In any case, engaging in a physical fight with the intruder was a risky gamble; as someone completely lacking in hand-to-hand combat skills, after all, it was far from the ideal option. Maybe if I do a somersault… No, just forget it. I'm a damn good-for-nothing!
Fleeing, too, posed its own set of dangers. There was no guarantee that I wouldn't run straight into another accomplice lying in wait outside. Yet simply remaining hidden, paralyzed and passive, while the trespasser roamed freely, was no longer a viable alternative. Eventually, he might detect me.
As indecision enshrouded me like a paltry drape, the intruder picked up something from my desk.
A... photograph?
It was small, encased in glass—cheap, perhaps. Inside, it showed... my family: the three of us, all mirthfully smiling with saline-kissed faces, taken during a sunlit vacation at the beach... I don't recognize the faces in the picture. And, the beach? I don't recall ever going to the beach. Was it when I was a child? I can't tell how old I am in it; there's a large brown patch—I'm deeply tanned. In fact, I hadn't thought about that particular photo for months; I didn't even remember who had bought the frame, or why I had it in my room. Maybe my aunt put it there?
Ugh... Holy shit, I thought.
There are many ways to rob a house; there are fewer ways to violate a life. Having someone rummage through your drawers is an inconvenience. You'd say, "Well, nothing to be done about it". Having someone handle your belongings with such reckless, callous disregard, on the other hand, is an outrage. Especially belongings that are emotionally important to you. It's like witnessing a cataclysm unfold right before your eyes!
I'm exaggerating... Maybe, or nah. But in truth, it wasn't so much a display of moral righteousness as it was a raw, primal, burning indignation—the kind that strikes before thought can even take hold, leaving no room for reason. As I mentioned earlier, seeing a stranger pawing at something so profoundly personal, with such careless, perverse indifference, it will inevitably unleashed a volatile cocktail of emotions within me. Like getting NTR'd or something, I don't know.
Was I angry? Anger is a useful fuel; it narrows down one's choices. So, I suppose I was angry. I am angry. That was the end of my hesitation. The turning point, America. I had made my decision: I could not—I wouldn't—allow this naive, sucker son-of-a-whore to profane the sanctity of my family's memories with its filthy, chunky, monster-looking, greasy fingers… Eh...?
No, that's not quite it, either… What am I even saying at this point? I'm angry, and I'll be doing something, but I think it's because he's practically facing his back towards me it's easier to do something. If I couldn't fight, the most appropriate alternative would be a charge, right?
[Thump… Thump… Thump… Thump…]
Huh...? M-my feet… My feet moved on their own before my brain could finish arguing with itself, carrying me on tiptoe toward the thief. For a second the room stilled to the exact frequency of my heartbeat, and a bead of sweat trailed down my palm as adrenaline coursed through my veins in equal measure.
Closing the distance with a hushed, hoarsed trot, I found myself right behind him. Huh—he's got a bald spot. So, what do I do? Strangle him? Punch him? Kick him? There's no time to overthink this—I'm wasting my one shot! Acting on instinct, I interlaced my fingers proportionally, locking both hands into a single fist; the skin across my knuckles pulled taut like wire coiled tight.
You can do it... You can do it, you can do it.
Thus, with every ounce of strength I leaned forward, planted my right leg firmly on the ground, pushed off slightly, and, with the momentum, delivered a ferocious hammer-like blow to the back of his skull. The impact sent him sprawling to the floor, clutching his head and groaning in pain.
«Arghhhhhh...! Ow....!»
«Hmph....! W-Wow, ah....!?»
Ugh, it hurts. Shit, it hurts. Oh, fuck.
Wait—the scream!
I turned around, and... Huh? There's no one at the door. This guy was alone. I don't hear anyone else rushing up here, either. Did really no one hear it? Why didn't anyone hear that scream?
Lucky, then! Notwithstanding the pain, in one swift motion, I maneuvered his left arm behind his back and twisted it into a painful lock that forced him to face me. With clear intent, I positioned my weight and straddled the prone figure's abdomen, pressing down with all the force at my disposal. I could feel the tendons of his abdominal muscles fighting against my knee.
Then, grabbing him by the throat, I raised my elbow high and unleashed a flurry of blows to his face, striking him repeatedly with relentless intensity. My strongest weapon, I suppose; each strike landing upon his nose with as I did my best to make both the sounds of his groan—covering his mouth—and the clashes of my blows sound as low as possible. Yet, his head still bounced along the ground, triggering a massive earthquake. Is no one hearing this?
«Ugh...! H-Hah-arhhg...»
«Sh...Sh-Shut up, shut up. Please, please....»
Fatigue clawed at me, but I paid it no heed.
The only thought consuming my mind was his weapon.
Genuinely, where is it? He doesn't have it with him. Did he drop it? On the floor...? It's not nearby; I don't see it anywhere close. The room is very dark, and the television isn't bright enough to serve as a light source. Fucking TV is more like a distraction. Or could it be hidden? In his pocket—in that rotten, snot-colored jacket? Beneath his body? Ah, m-my hands are turning red... Did he drop it, after all? Or did he have it in his pocket? Or was it under his body?!
Still, for some reason, as my punches connected, a perverse sense of vindication coursed through me. It was bitter, an ugly kind of relief; but in a way, it felt good. Why? Maybe because I was doing the right thing: I wanted to knock him unconscious so I could find his weapon and put an end to this. I am, quite literally, saving my family—or at least, I'm trying to.
And then, abruptly, my reverie shattered by a steep pain exploding on my cheek. [PAM!] My vision blurred. The intruder had landed a solid punch, sending me reeling backward until I fell, dazed. What the hell happened just now?
«Ah...! Wo-Woah...! O-Oh, fuck.»
Before I could regain my composure, he moved with startling speed, retrieving the pistol from inside his jacket... Be fucking for real, It was his jacket... The cold barrel wad held, pointed at me despite the chaotic circumstance he was in before. His furious voice erupte, demanding:
«Stay right where you are, you little piece of shit!»
Oh, I'm done.
As I turned my gaze toward the wretched figure, the barrel of the weapon gleamed ominously under the faint glow of the TV. Slowly, I raised my hands in a gesture of surrender, intertwining them behind my head in compliance.
«No, please! I-I-I don't want any trouble. I-I-I was just defending myself—it was self-defense, it was… I-I-I just…»
The offender scoffed and, with a thick accent, continued speaking: «"Self-defense," my fucking, hairy ass. Do you think I'm a fucking idiot, huh? Do I look like one to you? Do I look like a fucking idiot? Making a fool out of me? Defending yourself while pounding me into the floor, that's assault! You'd better get yourself a lawyer, you rookie fucker—!»
«I-I assure you, sir, I-I-I meant no harm!» I reiterated, a faint edge of desperation creeping into my tone as I clung to the hope of de-escalating the situation. I was about to cry, honestly.
But the criminal's demeanor remained cold and unyielding.
«Don't give me horse-shit. You're just whining for yourself. Trying to reason with me is pointless because the fact is you took me down, and I'm sure you tried to steal my gun. What, you thought it would be that fucking easy? You're a fucking idiot,» he retorted dripping with contumely. «You fucked up my face... It hurts, it hurts, you punch really good, you mother-fucker, sissy prick.»
I tried to grasp his motives, but he didn't seem inclined to entertain any form of dialogue: «Please, at least tell me your… y-your plans? What do you want fr-from our family? Money, money, right? W-What do you want, man? What the fuck? You want money? Please, tell me!» I pleaded, my voice trembling with desperation, hoping to glean even the slightest hint of his intentions.
In our family, financial resources were scarce.
We managed to live with a certain degree of comfort—though always with great caution—as every expense was calculated prudently, and any trivial demands or whims were dismissed with restraint. For that reason, the idea of us being targeted by housebreakers wasn't just shocking, it was nearly inconceivable.
However, I know that criminals often find it more profitable to prey upon people like themselves rather than the wealthy—fearing that targeting the rich would draw too much unwanted attention and requires more planification. The affluent have alarm systems, surveillance devices, and security personnel on high alert; people like us, by contrast, have little more than basic locks, a dog, or the faint hope that misfortune might befall someone else [someone just like us] instead.
But why, exactly, us—the %̶͙̳͚̅̍͋͝5̸͍̜͚̉͠k̵̰̇i̸͈͇̙͋İ̵̫̗͈̮̔͊̊l̶̤̹̼̭̆̿͐#̵̧͈̜͙̌͆͒ family?
Why? I don't understand. Was it just a random occurrence—did they play "eeny, meeny, miny, moe" to pick a house in the neighborhood? Is it a coincidence? Misidentification? Something personal? Do we have relations with gang member or the fucking mafia? Lord have mercy, please. The interrogations continued incessantly and, ultimately, futile.
With a low, ragged exhale, the intruder planted his palm against the floor and pushed himself upright. As he straightened his posture, his joints tensed and rippled beneath his elegant attire; as he adjusted his tie, shadows casted across his sullen face. Hasn't he grown taller? He's taller now, right? Moreover, the firearm remained steady, with his finger resting on the trigger.
Suddenly, breaking the silence with a sudden, almost offhand remark, he issued a command with an authoritarian tone: «Get up and face the wall,» he articulated, gesturing in that direction with his head.
My pupils dilated, and I could feel my voice tremble as I stammered. I tried to mask it with a timid smile—a failed attempt at levity—and stammered: «No-no—Excuse me, but… but, you're not going to kill me, right? Please, please? No, please, don't—»
«—Buttagot! Get the fuck up and face the wall! I don't care if you piss or shit yourself in the pants, I don't give a fuck about you. I can kill your stupid, sissy face as many times as I want. You know why? Because that's my business, that's what I do. So, shut the fuck up and face the wall!» He overflowed my words with a despotic yell.
«No, no! Please! Ahhh, fuck! O-Okay, okay...! Ah....!»
At that moment, any remaining hope I had, evaporated.
This is it. T-This is it, folks. The end of my life!
All my aspirations, my ambitions, my future. They've all been destroyed, shattered, discarded, spat upon, trampled underfoot, and, above all, fucked in the ass by the whims of an intractable stranger I've never seen in my whole damn life... I've never actually seen him, but his face seems vaguely familiar. Although, does recognizing him mean anything? Are we in a movie?
I had always believed I was destined for greatness, just like anyone living in society. Or rather, like any human who had a reason for being in this cruel world—or who, at some point, would unleash my prodigious abilities in… In what? Fuck—I don't know, and I won't even bother to find out. In any case, it's fucking bullshit! What the hell?
I've tried to wriggle out of this using various survival tactics—negotiating with the intruder, provoking a desperate response, to launch a desperate counterattack—but deep down, I knew it was useless. I managed to do one...! But it was useless. I was the useless one. He held all the cards, and I was just a target. Were you blind?! You didn't stand a chance, you idiot.
How absurd, damn it!
Fuck this guy, fuck him!
Ahhhhh, what a load of shit!
If this is the end, I'll face it with dignity. Come on! I won't lose any aura points over this, hahaha! I won't beg for my life or weep like a fucking weakling, candy-ass pussy with no self-respect. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me cower in fear, for surely the wretched bastard would be accustomed to such behavior, given his sadistic, vitriolic, foul-mouthed nature.
However… Hmph.
Somehow, amid the discouragement and animosity that besieged me, I felt something within me.
Well, I suppose it's natural to feel some sadness. It's not as if I'm an emotionless homunculus. But, curiously, I find myself unable to articulate it fully, since I'm convinced that this strange and uncanny feeling isn't directed at the situation itself or at the mugger—I'm already angry with him as it is. I feel that this weird emotion is directed straight at me.
Ever since I gained the cognitive ability to talk to myself in my little head, all this time I've wondered: Why hadn't I taken more risks in life? Why had I squandered so many hours on meaningless pursuits? Why had I been so passive, so apathetic, so stupidly bad-tempered to the point that I couldn't enjoy anything?
But regrets won't change a damn thing now, will they?
I curse myself for my cowardice, for my inability to take bold action, for failing to live up to my potential, for my inability to express myself properly, for giving up too easily, for failing to meet the expectations of others, and for insisting on being "myself"—which, in the end, only limited my ability to adapt and socialize. Regret was always, always, always present within this pathetic human being.
Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. Yeah, pathetic, isn't it? It's pathetic. I'm pathetic!
As if I'd been sleepwalking through life, I've never, ever, done anything truly remarkable, nor did I have the inclination to make a change. I never woke up—I didn't want to step out of my comfort zone. That's what they call it, right? Even so, I regret everything I left undone, the people I let down. I regret the life I didn't live, the adventures I never embarked on, the love I never experienced.
It's a bitter pill to swallow. It reminds me of when I was a kid, when I realized that time is marching on, without pause, and that I might never get the chance to do those kinds of things until, at some point, my life bar is already running out… Ironically, my life is not slipping away, it's going to end abruptly by a backchat, loud-mouth, potty-looking twat.
Fuck, just... Fuck y'all...
Hmph... But... Who am I kidding?
Who cares about any of that crap?
I don't. I truly don't. I mean, I do not wish to define myself by my achievements or failures. In any case, I never produced anything particularly productive or socially valuable. To hell with such social nonsense! Suppress your self-sufficiency, and disparage your own creativity, adaptability, flexibility, and self-expression—that's what they do. "Don't compare yourself to others," they say, but it's inevitable in those circumstances. Who do you want to be? What the hell am I even yelling at?
I want to be defined as myself.
I had always been curious, analytical, and introspective—that was something no one could ever take away from me. I am intelligent, and I have always sought knowledge and understanding—things that transcend space and time. And if it were all a lie, would someone curse me for it? I don't even care if I'm wrong; I have always been true to myself, and I shall remain unchanged. Was I being limited—and if so, in what way? I don't care, I'm going to die!
To hell with people who let themselves be swayed by the opinions of others—fucking cowards! Don't you believe that being yourself is enough? Is your self-esteem really that low?! And if they notice a change, why the hell should that matter to them?! You are all slaves to approval! Yet, you dare to talk about "dignity" or "cringe" while you yourselves kneel before every trendy idea that comes along, treating them as if they were the Buddha, all just to avoid being alone or being seen as "weird." You damn bootlickers!
Ugh, my heard hurts.
With that, I stood up and turned to face the wall.
I experienced a gratifying sense of detachment. I haven't said a word, but I'm exhaling as if I just ran a marathon or sang in a concert. A beautiful fledgling had emerged from its shell, only to be born straight into a slaughterhouse. But I no longer cared—about anything, at all. I knew my physical body would soon perish, but my spirit would endure... Wow, that was poetic. Yeah, right? This is pure poetry—Shakespeare, eat your heart out!
So, I'm tired... Go ahead!
Point that gun at me, and finish me off, because I wouldn't deliver a grand speech or scream at the top of my lungs! I would face it head-on just as I had faced my own shortcomings.... Come on!
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to savor every last trace of my life.
My end, finally, I thought...
Hmph...
Hmph, again...
Shit, I'm shaking...
I'm suffocating; my throat feels constricted. My legs won't respond to my urge to flee either; some automatic reflex keeps them rooted in place. Perhaps, subconsciously, I've concluded that there's no way to escape. Now I know it. Ah…?! I-I didn't think that peeing when scared was real either, but I really need to go to the bathroom right now, and I haven't had any water in the last few hours.
How terrifying. I can't block out the fear—it's pointless. No matter how much I try to bluff, death is a harrowing reality.
I'm going to die. Am I going to die? I'm going to die…
Should I have strangled him instead of just knocking him down? I was so impatient to have him subdued that I didn't think clearly about the situation I was involved. How do you strangle someone properly, anyway? What if my arm had dislocated while I was doing it? I'm such a weakling. Fuck, I hate myself—I don't want to die for someone else. I don't want to die. It's my fault. I shouldn't have done it. I don't want to die. I don't want to die.
…Oh, right. Ha, why am I thinking about him right now? I just remembered him at the worst possible moment: Isaac. Am I in love with you?
Sorry, dawg, but I guess I can't tell you exactly how the game went. I didn't...
....Wait, Isaac? I don't remember his face anymore. Why?
…Isaac? Whose name is that?
«I'm sixteen years old, man... I'm not justifying my reaction, you know what I mean? I was desperate. I was desperate and too naive to think clearly, right? Right?»
«....»
«I-If I hadn't done anything, and you'd found me hiding behind the door… would you have shot me anyway? A-Are you any good at fighting? Like, with Chinese martial arts, or… Why are you here? Why are you doing this? Are the people downstairs… still alive?»
«....»
«Pfft. Oh, God. I'm scared. I'm fucking scared, man… Shit…! Holy fuck, man, what are you waiting for…?! What are you waiting for, you fucking idiot? Shoot me! Shoot me—just shoot me already!»
«....»
Even as I collapsed, sobbing inconsolably, there was still no response. Or rather, was the guy still standing there? Was he still pointing something at me? I heard nothing, felt nothing behind me. There was no one behind me. And yet, I was too afraid to turn around.
«I-I'm gonna run towards you, you fuck. What's wrong? What's the matter, huh?! Answer me…! Answer me! What's up?! What's up, huh—did your dick shrink~? Huh? I can't hear anything, bro. Go on, ah... Sh-Sh-Shoot me... Shoot me alrea—Ah....dy—ghh...!»
And then, as the gunshot echoed throughout the room, a searing pain exploded at the back of my neck, and everything went dark.