After a few hours, it was almost Christmas Eve. I haven't been outside since.
I was waiting in my room for my mother to call me to join the revelry downstairs, where several of my uncles and grandparents are gathered.
Our tradition differs from the American norm. While most families in the U.S. usually celebrate Christmas on the 25th, for some reason, my family chooses to celebrate on the 24th, having turkey for dinner and unwrapping presents at midnight.
I'm sure this deviation stems due to some Latino influence from my father's neighborhood friends. This tends to be more prevalent on the west coast or southwest of the country.
Meanwhile, to stave off boredom, I idly rambled through my phone, sitting in front of my desk with my legs crossed and my feet resting flat on its surface.
Looking at the Instagram stories of my high school classmates, it was clear that everyone was having a good time.
Some are uploading pictures and videos of the family dinner; a few, the festively decorated streets outside; and one or two, with their girlfriends.... I really don't want to see that.
Shortly after, I received a message from the ever-cheerful Isaac:
[Yo, I just copped the game] He wrote, his excitement practically leaping off the screen.
Then came another message:
[Look!!!] followed by an attached image.
It was a picture of his hand holding the game case, featuring a moe-style illustration of several girls fawning over the protagonist. The title, Heart Breaker, was emblazoned in an obnoxiously flashy font.
What the fuck is this? That was my immediate reaction.
[What the fuck is this?] I texted back.
[dawg. whats wrong?? Ts a masterpiece, can't you tell?] He shot back instantly. I could practically picture him lounging wherever he was, smug as ever.
[No, what I see is a cheap ahh game you wasted money on. Honestly, I don't think I want it anymore] I replied, unimpressed.
Despite my indifference, Isaac was unwilling to concede defeat:
[WAIT WAIT plsss] He begged, attaching a bizarre sticker. Then he added,
[just this once, try it out. I swear on my soul u gonna love it fr]
[Mhm] 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.
[yeh] Came his curt reply.
[How?]
[by pulling up to ure house bru] He answered, as if the answer was self-evident.
I couldn't help but feel exasperated by his sudden decision to visit me. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and I know he would be with his family all day, so why now?
I considered asking him such queries; however, I knew he would simply respond with his characteristic "Because I can" response. Instead, I opted for a more practical approach:
[Well, come on over then. I'll wait for you at the door]
[Aight!!!] He responded excitedly. Isaac was nothing if not persistent.
Over half an hour had passed when the discordant chime of the doorbell finally echoed through my room, breaking the monotony of its quiet.
Reluctantly, I dragged myself off the bed—despite having promised to wait by the door—and trudged toward the staircase.
As I reached the base of the stairs, I spotted my mother opening the front entry. And there, framed by the biting winter air, stood Isaac, clutching the game in both hands. His thick winter jacket and knitted beanie couldn't hide the unrestrained excitement gleaming in his eyes.
«Here it is, my guy» He announced with a grin so wide it threatened to split his face in two.
I sighted instinctively, unable to fully suppress the gesture. It wasn't that I despised the game or the gesture—it was just... I don't know; his enthusiasm maybe, which was infectious, albeit exhausting
Still, I relented, murmuring a quiet thanks as I took the game from his outstretched hands.
With his mission accomplished, Isaac turned on his heel and disappeared into the cold. I retreated to my room, game in hand, and booted up the console.
Well, the premise was straightforward: you played as a protagonist navigating the labyrinthine intricacies of romance—a domain I had yet to truly explore. The concept felt foreign, almost daunting, but I was never one to back down from a challenge.
Once I delved deeper into the game, it became glaringly obvious how uninspired the character designs were. Each one was a walking stereotype, shamelessly molded from the same tired tropes: the shy girl, the popular guy, the aloof boy—you name it.
The dialogue lacked ingenuity, adhering to predictable patterns ripped straight from a cookie-cutter romantic-comedy anime. And, as if to drive the point home, the situation I currently find myself in perfectly encapsulates one of those interactions.
Picture this: there's this girl—w-what's her name again? No clue. I haven't been paying attention to the names. Let's just say 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 and entered a café—one of the game's choices—and then stumbled upon this girl. Apparently, this interaction is classified as a "side quest," and I was unceremoniously forced to approach her. The conversation kicked off in a ludicrously awkward manner—clearly meant to be comedic, I suppose.
And how does she respond? With a scowl and the line:
[Yumi: "Oh, it's you. What do you want?"]
Can you feel the charm radiating from her? Because I certainly can't. Isn't this supposed to be the point of the game?
I couldn't care less. Now, here are the options displayed on the screen before me:
[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.]
[Option 3: Persist and express your curiosity about her.]
Wowwww, how delightfully transparent. It's painfully obvious which option is the "correct" one. Option 1, naturally. Let's see how this unfolds, shall we?
["Ah, my mistake, Yumi-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?"]
[Yumi hesitates for a moment, a faint blush dusting her cheeks, before releasing an exaggerated sigh of exasperation. "Hmph, fine. But don't think this means I like you or anything," she huffs, stuffing her book into her bag and reluctantly rising from her seat.]
...Aight, I'll admit, that was rather chivalrous of me—but honestly, is this what boys are into these days? Girls who seemingly can't manage a shred of honest communication? How utterly sad for them.
Moreover, I couldn't help but notice the glaring lack of originality in the plot. So far, it was the same time-worn narrative of boy meets, woos, and wins over girls. Nothing more!
You check the status/information of some airhead, 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.
There was nothing unique or thought-provoking about it. I was right all along!
And as I've been playing, the choices presented in the game are limited and seem to have little to no meaningful impact on the story's outcome. Honestly, where is this story even headed?
Undoubtedly, there's a cycle you're obligated to follow. Time progresses in the game, school events take place, and my participation in them is, at the very least, crucial in some sense.
Nevertheless, it was frustrating to go through the motions of selecting options, only to discover they all seemed to lead to the same conclusion—or so I assumed.
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.
Still, despite my criticisms, I couldn't entirely dismiss the effort that went into it. The 3D graphics were respectable; 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.
Yet, it wasn't enough to salvage a truly immersive experience.
***
As my musings deepened, the clock's hands continued their stealthy march, until the building transformed into a desolate refuge of silence.
The raucous clamor from below vanished as swiftly as a trail of gunpowder consumed by fire.
So engrossed was I in the television that I hadn't even noticed time slipping away. Two hours? Three? A quick glance at the clock revealed it was 11:45. Rarely did I find myself so captivated by a video game.
But now, as I strained my ears, a creeping awareness settled in—something was amiss.
Then, without warning—like a bolt of lightning—an earsplitting crash erupted from downstairs, jolting me out of my stupor. My body froze in shock, and the fine hairs at the nape of my neck stood rigid, bristling with unease.
What the fuck was that? A blown tire? A piece of furniture toppling over? The possibilities raced through my mind, but the subsequent cacophony quickly quashed any hope that this was a mere accident.
As though answering my unspoken fears, another noise resounded—then another, and another, each one like a hammer pounding nails into a fragile structure.
These were no ordinary sounds, I realized with a mounting sense of trepidation that it was the unmistakable discharge of a firearm, and with each shot, the anguished cries of the ill-fated souls below grew louder and more desperate.
My mind raced, frantically trying to make sense of the chaos unfolding; my breathing grew heavier, and my eyes darted erratically around the room, searching for answers that weren't there.
Had someone broken into our home? Why were they shooting my family? A deep-seated panic clawed at my chest as the gravity of the situation sank in.
Without hesitation, I fumbled for my phone, my fingers trembling uncontrollably as I dialed 911.
I was just about to call for emergency assistance when the telltale creak of my staircase pierced the suffocating silence.
However, the noises emanating from the steps were cautious and deliberate—each one measured, as though the individual ascending sought to remain unnoticed.
Oh, shit.
My heart plummeted; a tidal wave of dread washed over me as the realization took hold—someone was coming to the second floor.
Instincts seized control, urging me to seek refuge, to vanish from the sight of whoever was approaching.
With a surge of urgency, I rose to my feet, my gaze darting to the narrow space between my wardrobe and the doorway; I slipped into the cramped alcove, positioning myself behind the partially ajar door, my body pressed into the shadows.
Gripping my phone tightly in my hand, I offered a silent prayer to whatever indifferent gods might be listening, pleading that my sanctuary remain undisturbed.
Alas, it seemed fate had no intention of granting me mercy; my prayers were in vain, my pleas falling on deaf celestial ears because I felt the presence of an intruder.
As they crept into my room, my eyes were inexorably drawn to the sinister silhouette of an object clasped firmly in their hand.
A fucking gun! Of course.
The intruder was diminutive—a grotesque figure, almost folkloric in its absurdity. This creature, no taller than me, positioned itself at the center of the room; its movements carried the measured grace of a prowling feline, each step deliberate as it surveyed its surroundings.
He approached my belongings with a detached curiosity, inspecting each item as though appraising its worth.
His fingers traced the edges of my cherished collectibles, lingered on the spines of my treasured books, and toyed idly with the buttons of my gaming console, like a child discovering a forbidden plaything.
From my concealed vantage point, I observed in tense silence, my thoughts spiraling into chaos as I grappled with the enormity of 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?
Countless scenarios raced through my mind, each more desperate than the last, as I meticulously weighed the risks and rewards of every conceivable course of action.
Engaging in physical combat with the intruder was a perilous gamble; as someone utterly lacking in hand-to-hand combat skills, it was far from an ideal option.
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 I wrestled with indecision, the intruder picked up a photo frame from my desk. Within it was a cherished snapshot of my family, taken during a sunlit vacation at the beach.
Holy fuck, I thought. The sight of a stranger handling something so profoundly personal with such careless indifference ignited a volatile cocktail of emotions within me.
That was the tipping point. My resolve crystallized in an instant. I couldn't—wouldn't—allow this invader to defile the sanctity of my family's memory.
My feet moved of their own accord, carrying me silently across the room toward the burglar. My heart thundered within my chest, each beat a deafening drum; a bead of sweat trailed down my palm as fear and adrenaline coursed through my veins in equal measure.
You can do it... You can do it, you can do it.
As I closed the distance with a soundless, deliberate stride, I found myself standing directly behind him. My hands clenched into fists, merging together as if bound by an unspoken vow of determination.
Thus, with every ounce of strength I could gather, I delivered a ferocious blow to the back of his skull. The impact sent him sprawling to the floor, clutching his head and groaning in pain.
«ARGH...! Ow....!»
In one swift motion, I maneuvered his left arm behind his back, twisting it into a painful lock that forced him to face me.
With resolute determination, I shifted my weight, straddling the abdomen of the prone figure and pressing down with all the force my body manage to muster.
I could feel the sinews of the muscles straining against my hold, his every movement a futile struggle. Yet, I was unwavering in my purpose.
Raising my arm high, I unleashed a relentless barrage of blows with my right hand: my strongest weapon, I suppose; each strike landing upon his face with unyielding resolve 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.
«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.
Where is it? He doesn't have it on him—did it fall, or is it hidden? I scanned the room frantically, but my search yielded nothing. Still, as my fists connected with his skin, a perverse sense of vindication coursed through me.
Then, abruptly, my grim reverie shattered; a sharp, searing pain exploded across my cheek. The intruder had landed a solid punch, sending me reeling backward, dazed.
«Wo-Woah... Oh, fuck»
Before I could regain my composure, he moved with startling speed, retrieving a pistol from inside his jacket. The cold barrel now trained on me, his arm steady despite the chaos.
His voice, raw with fury, echoed through the room:
«Stay right where you are, you little piece of shit!»
The metallic sound of the firearm reverberated through the room, slicing through the tense silence with an eerie resonance that seemed to linger in my ears.
As I turned my gaze toward the wretched figure, the barrel of the weapon gleamed ominously under the faint glow of the television, sending an involuntary shiver cascading down my spine. Slowly, I raised my hands in a gesture of surrender, intertwining them behind my head in compliance.
«L-Look, I don't want any trouble,» I said, my voice steady despite the storm of fear brewing within me. «I was defending myself»
The offender scoffed and, with a thick accent, continued speaking:
«You think I'm a fucking idiot, huh? Do I look like one to you? Defending yourself while pounding me into the floor? That's agression—»
«I-I assure you, sir, I meant no-no harm!» I reiterated, a faint edge of desperation creeping into my tone as I clung to the hope of de-escalating the situation.
But the criminal's demeanor remained cold and unyielding, his grip on the weapon unwavering, his eyes fixed on me with lethal intent.
«Man, don't give me horse-shit; 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. I don't trust anyone—never have, never will» He retorted, his tone dripping with contumely. «You fucked up my face... It hurts, it hurts, you punch really god, you son of a bitch»
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, right? You want money?» I pleaded, my voice trembling with desperation, hoping to glean even the slightest hint of his intentions.
In our family, financial resources were scarce. The idea of us being targeted by criminals wasn't just shocking—it was nearly inconceivable.
Then again, criminals often prey on their own rather than attacking the wealthy. They fear drawing too much attention. But why target specifically our family? Is it a coincidence? Why? Why?!
With a strained sigh, the assailant pushed himself up from his crouched position, his movements deliberate as he slowly rose to his full height, his unwavering gaze fixed squarely on me.
As he straightened, his muscles tensed and rippled beneath his clothing, casting shadows across his grim face. The firearm remained steady in his hand, his finger resting on the trigger—a stark reminder of the control he held over me.
Breaking the silence with a sudden, almost offhand remark, he issued a command, his tone carrying a faint trace of authority:
«Get up and face the wall,» he said, gesturing toward it with a slight tilt of his head.
My pupils widened, and I could feel the tremor in my voice as I stammered:
«Forgive me, but… but, you're not going to kill me, right? Please, please?» I followed with a nervous smile, my attempt at humor falling flat.
«—Buttagot! Get the fuck up and face the goddamn wall!»
«O-Okay, okay!» I blurted out; he overflowed my words with a despotic tone.
At that moment, any remaining hope I had evaporated.
This is it. T-This is it, folks. The end of my life!
All my dreams, my aspirations, my future—shattered by the whims of an unyielding stranger.
I had always believed I was destined for greatness, that I had a purpose in this world. Yet, in this moment, it all felt like a cruel joke, a delusion I had foolishly clung to.
I tried to think of ways to save myself—to negotiate with the intruder, to launch a desperate counterattack—but deep down, I knew it was useless. He had the upper hand, and I was on the firing range.
How absurd.
If this were to be the end, then I would face it with dignity. I would not beg for my life or weep like a fucking coward. I would not grant him the satisfaction of seeing me cower in fear.
Yet, intertwined with the despair and fury coursing through me, I felt an unexpected wave of introspection rising within.
Well, I suppose it's only natural to feel a shadow of melancholy creeping over me. It's not as though I'm an emotionless husk.
But, strangely, I find myself unable to articulate it fully, for I'm certain this sentiment isn't directed at the situation itself. No—it's aimed squarely at me.
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?
But regrets won't change a damn thing now, will they?
I cursed myself for my cowardice, for my inability to take bold steps, for failing to rise to my potential. Regret always, always swept over this pathetic human.
Pathetic, yeah. Pathetic, isn't it? As if I'd been sleepwalking through life.
Still, I truly regret all the things I left undone, the people I left behind. 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, knowing time is slipping away, knowing I might never get the chance to do those things. Fuck, just... Fuck all.
Hah, but who am I kidding? Who cares about any of that crap?
I, this innate being, am not defined by my achievements or failures. After all, I gained nothing of societal value.
To hell with that nonsense! I define myself by the very essence of who I am.
I've always been curious, analytical, introspective—and that's something no one could ever take from me. I sought knowledge, understanding, and wisdom—things that transcend time and space.
I've always been true to myself, and that's something I could never compromise. Screw the people who live by others' opinions! Don't you believe that being yourself is more than enough?
Then, as I stood up and turned to face the wall, I felt neither fear nor despair, but rather a strange sense of detachment. I no longer cared—about anything.
I knew my physical body would soon perish, but my spirit would endure. This is poetry.
So go ahead! Point that gun at me, you deformed, italian looking-twat! Finish me off!
I wouldn't deliver a grand speech or scream at the top of my lungs. I would face it head-on—not literally—just as I had faced my own shortcomings.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to savor every last trace of my existence.
My end, finally, I thought. But even so, I'm not finished yet.
Damn it, I'm shaking. My legs refuse to respond to the instinct to flee; some automatic mechanism keeps them rooted in place because I know—there's no way out. None at all.
I can't block out the fear—it's useless. No matter how much I try to bluff, death is a terrifying certainty.
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 circumstances.
Ah, Isaac, the game you lent me wasn't bad at all, but I wish I'd never tried it. No, more than that, I doubt I'll ever play it again.
«I'm sixteen... I'm not justifying my reaction, but I was desperate, and too naïve to reason properly.»
«...»
«If I'd done nothing, and you found me hiding behind the door, would you have shot me anyway? Are the people downstairs... are they still alive?»
No response.
«I'm scared. I'm scared... What are you waiting for...? What are you waiting for, you idiot? Shoot me! Just shoot me already!»
Even as I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably, there was still no answer.
«I'm gonna run to you, fucker. What's wrong? Did your balls shrivel up~? Go ahe—Shoo... Shoo-t me alrea...dy—ghh...»
And then, as the gunshot echoed throughout the room, a searing pain exploded at the base of my nape, and everything went dark.