It has been five years since I killed my father. My expression remained neutral as the memory passed through my mind like just another piece of data. Things went well, although I noticed Officer Anderson wasn't fully convinced it had been an accident; his furrowed brows and fixed stare made that clear. Still, after a month of interrogating my mother and asking me a few questions—questions I answered with a calm voice and a relaxed posture—they ended up closing the case.
At six years old, I started elementary school, dragging my feet through the hallways and yawning without hiding it. I had no choice but to go, since I had to act like a normal six-year-old. It was extremely boring, and I often fell asleep because of it, my head resting on my arm and my eyes half-closed. However, I learned that understanding what they taught was very easy for me, so they stopped bothering me about falling asleep after several times of waking me up, asking me to answer something, and me doing so without hesitation, slowly lifting my head and responding correctly. I didn't make friends during those years, always sitting alone with my arms crossed. I had no interest in befriending children so immature, and I was used to being alone.
At some point, they started seeing me as the weird kid in elementary school. I could feel the sideways glances and hear the hushed whispers, but I didn't give it much importance. One day, however, some kids about two years older tried to bully me, surrounding me with twisted smiles and shoves. They were the ones who ended up crying on the ground, begging me to stop through tears, curled up with their hands covering their faces. After that day, no one tried to bother me again.
I have also spent five years training my body, waking up before dawn with my body still sore. I asked my mom to find information on how to properly train the body at an early age, staring at her intently while I spoke. But it seemed she had few contacts, since she rarely went out before my father's death. At first, she couldn't find anything, lowering her gaze when remembering that time, but a year later she met a physical education teacher who sold her a book about training at early ages, holding it carefully as if it were something dangerous. From that moment on, I stopped training only with the basics—push-ups, squats, sit-ups, and running—with sweat dripping down my forehead. Today, my training consists of calisthenics. At first, it was only with my own body weight, but now I train with extra weight using the proper tools I managed to get over the years.
At ten years old, my body is no longer like that of other kids my age. Don't misunderstand me—I'm still a child—but every muscle in my arms and legs has hardened from years of training: running until I can't feel my feet, doing push-ups, squats, pull-ups, and other exercises… all since I was five. I'm not huge or muscular like an adult, but there is strength and density in every movement I make.
My shoulders are wider than normal; when I tense them, every muscle becomes defined. My arms and legs are firmer, and my hands… as I slowly clench them into fists, they are no longer just for playing. They can hold and manipulate things other kids wouldn't even imagine. My legs are my advantage: fast, enduring, ready to jump or run for hours without getting tired.
My face still looks like that of a child, but my eyes don't lie—my gaze is cold and attentive. Everything I do, every movement, every decision, is calculated. Most people see a child; I see what I can do with every second and every action.
The food I eat gives me energy, the training gives me endurance, and all of it together makes me different. I can run farther, jump higher, lift my own body weight… and even though my body is small, my ability to use it is enormous.
Seeing these changes I achieved over five years of training, I can't help but feel proud of the effort I put into reaching this point, a faint smile forming on my face. Now, with these results, I can't afford to slack off—I must keep training and pushing myself. I can't help but imagine what I'll be like as an adult. The reason I died in my previous life was because my body was too weak. I clench my teeth as I remember it. It won't happen again. That's why I work so hard to become strong. If I had been just a little stronger, I would have escaped that trap.
By the way, the town is called Derry. I frown for a second. I don't know why it feels so familiar, but I forget about it shortly after.
Mom got a job as a waitress in town. I see her come home tired but smiling. She seems happier lately; my father's death appears to have been a relief in her life. Still, she fears me the same way she did when she saw me kill him, and I plan to keep it that way. I have no interest in forming a bond with someone who, as far back as I can remember, beat me without mercy. Every time she tries to redeem herself, I remind her why she's afraid of me.
Lately, something strange has been happening to her. She wakes up in the middle of the night screaming my father's name, her forehead drenched in sweat. I think she's started having nightmares about him or something like that.
The people in this town are strange too. I observe them in silence. I often see them ignore it when they witness kids bullying others or doing other bad things. There's also a house nearby where I constantly hear shouting, calling someone a demon, ranting about God and all kinds of religious things. I try to walk past that place quickly, picking up my pace. Listening to that woman scream nonstop is annoying.
For now, I can only focus on myself, with the goal of living a peaceful life full of comfort in the future. Thinking calmly, I've been considering investing in some companies that I know will become multimillion-dollar giants in the future. Even though I don't know exactly how or when it happened, just knowing how big they'll become should be enough.
I can't wait for technology to advance so I can watch anime, movies, and play those amazing games I never got to try in my previous life. Unfortunately, there's still a long way to go. This time, I was born far too early—it's only 1985, and there's still a long wait ahead.
Today, I was walking home while thinking about everything that happened over the last five years when I heard screams and a girl crying as others laughed. My pace slowed. I kept walking until I could see what was happening in the alley. There were five girls harassing a thin, blonde girl of about twelve years old, pulling her hair and mocking her.
I thought for a moment about whether I should intervene or not, stopping in place and lightly clenching my fingers. Then I remembered the people who tried to help me in my previous life and ended up injured or dead because of me. An uncomfortable pressure formed in my chest. Maybe this could make up for it… as long as it didn't become too much trouble.
I entered the alley, my shadow stretching across the damp ground. I walked toward them and said calmly, my voice firm and my face expressionless:
"You. Leave her alone."
The girls stopped and turned around in surprise, some of them opening their eyes wide. The leader, a tall blonde girl, frowned, crossing her arms:
"And who are you? What are you doing here, runt?"
"It doesn't matter who I am. Just do what I say and leave her alone," I replied coldly, staring straight into her eyes without blinking.
The leader hesitated for a moment, biting her lip in irritation, but then, annoyed, she stepped forward to slap me, raising her hand abruptly. I took a step back and caught her wrist midair, closing my fingers with precision.
"Let go of me, damn runt!" she screamed, twisting violently as she tried to pull free.
I didn't loosen my grip. My muscles tensed. I squeezed harder.
"A-ouch! It hurts!" she complained, her voice breaking.
Then I released her abruptly, pushing her hand away with a sharp motion. Since she had been exerting force, she lost her balance and fell to the ground, her back hitting the pavement. I stepped closer and slapped her hard, twisting my torso to put more force into the strike.
Slap.
The girl started crying, covering her face with her hands. I didn't care.
"Get lost," I ordered, my tone low but authoritative.
The leader stopped crying, breathing heavily. She stood up trembling and ran away with the other girls, glancing back at me with fear.
I turned toward the girl they had been bullying, slightly relaxing my shoulders. Up close, she seemed strangely familiar.
She looked at me with tears on her face, shocked, blinking several times as if she couldn't believe what had just happened. She had been suffering that bullying for a year.
I extended my hand toward her, my palm open.
"Get up. They're gone."
She hesitated for a few seconds, looking at my hand and then at my face, but she took it and stood up, gripping it carefully.
"Th-thank you…" she whispered, her voice trembling, not daring to look at me for long.
"You're welcome," I replied, letting go of her hand.
"You're weak," I continued, observing her coldly. "That's why they do this to you."
She lowered her head, pressing her lips together in embarrassment.
"If you don't change, it'll keep happening. Learn to defend yourself. And if they bother you again… tell me," I added firmly.
She opened her eyes wide in surprise, slowly lifting her gaze.
"Why… would you help me again?"
I stayed silent for a few seconds, analyzing my own words.
"If I start something, I finish it. And I like things to end the way I want."
She looked at me for a moment, taking a deep breath before gathering the courage to ask:
"What's your name?"
"Liam. And yours?" I replied, slightly tilting my head.
A small smile appeared on her face, shy and fragile.
"Carrie," she answered with timid happiness in her voice.
At that moment, my mind trembled. A chilling sensation ran down my spine. That name… I knew it. The protagonist of a horror movie from my previous life. A girl abused until she snapped mentally and killed everything around her with telekinetic powers. I had really liked that movie. I always thought it would be interesting to help her and change that fate… but it was only fiction. Or at least, that's what I believed.
Just when I thought I had reincarnated into a horror movie, a faint buzzing pierced my head, and a sound echoed in my mind.
[DING]
[CONDITIONS MET]
[ACTIVATING THE SYSTEM]