I'm dead
The incessant buzzing in my head was getting louder, threatening to consume my thoughts completely. And yet, despite the overwhelming sensation, my attention was quickly drawn to a divine, incandescent light that materialized before me.
It was as if I were gazing upon the very essence of nirvana—a blinding white radiance that beckoned me closer, even as it threatened to engulf me completely. Is this heaven?
But, at any moment, the light would dissipate and give way to a semi-blurry vision, then lead to assimilate the gray, opaque walls of a room.
Wow, how could something so wonderful and empyrean disappear so quickly leaving me with nothing but the monotonous reality of the world around me?
Well, equally I had been foolish to believe in the promise of a better life, to cling to the hope that there was something more for me.
But even as I berated myself for my naivety, I couldn't help but feel a pang of bitterness and resentment—again.
My mind was spinning and my body was squirming with discomfort; then, I uttered a curse under my breath—the sharper escaping my lips like an errant arrow shot from its bow:
«What the fuck,» I quoted slowly, each word elongated. «I feel... strange, strange. I-I don't know.»
My limbs contracted involuntarily and a cold sweat broke out on my forehead as I struggled to make sense of the bewildering haze of thoughts and emotions assailing me.
As I lay in repose, my legs fell prey to an annoying numbness, causing a reflexive retraction of my tendons. It was then that I became aware of a soft silk sheet wrapper, tousled by my restless toes.
The feather-soft fabric clung to my skin, filling me with a luxurious sense of alleviation, inducing a state of calm and tempting me to stay in bed... Wait, I'm in a bed!?
With a sudden movement and ignoring the lethargy that burdened my being, I lifted my torso from the bed, assuming a sitting position on the sheets; I opened my eyes.
Horrified, I could hardly comprehend what had just happened, I could not believe it.
Perplexity beset, as I stared in amazement at my outstretched arms, which were twirling like some kind of curious spectacle. My breaths became choppy, each inhalation harder than the last, as if my heart was about to stop beating.
U-Uh, after insubstantial reflection, my own brain muddled with contradictory judgments.
Did I not meet my tragic and melodramatic end a few seconds ago; was I not embraced by the cold and unyielding grip of The Grim Reaper?!
Yet, despite this, I've been lying on this surface; giving me to understand that I am still in my mortality, am I not?
Heheheheh, why! I shouted inwardly.
I'm alive...
I could feel my chest rising and falling with each gasp; I can watch the movements of my own joints and feel the softness of the mattress against my ass.
Yes, I was undeniably alive.
Wait a moment! Briefly, I raised my arm to touch the back of my neck, near the nape of my neck, and try to make sure if the bullet of the pistol has penetrated my flesh.... However, there was no anomaly in my perception, only the tender locks of my hair brushed my fingers.
What's going on? I thought.
I resolved, then, to get out of this bed, and with a flourish, I removed the sheet that had been covering my feet and stood up.
Inside this supposed room, I proceeded to inspect it in its entirety and realized that it wasn't mine. I didn't recognize a single item within the chamber, nor could I recall ever owning any of them.
On the other hand, what immediately caught my attention was the raw simplicity of the space. It wasn't dull or lifeless; instead, it exuded a certain minimalist charm.
Upon closer inspection, I noticed that some objects—books and curiosities—were present and arranged in an orderly fashion.
By contrast, my own room had never been so well-kept. Disorder and disarray reigned supreme, and though I had intended to rectify the situation for quite some time—I never did. And now, here I was, in an entirely different place.
«Gosh... I-I need to go now, now, now!» I muttered anxiously, already prepared to do so.
However, as I made my careless way toward the exit, my gaze fell upon a mirror hanging near the door.
Compelled by some unknown force, I retraced my steps and stood before the reflective glass. I stared into it, hoping to catch a glimpse of my own face and confirm my existence. And then...
«W-what the... Huh, what the hell?! Huh?!» I exclaimed, bewildered, my voice betraying a tinge of incredulity.
Suddenly, I leaned closer to the mirror, my nose mere centimeters from the glass—so close that my reflection felt almost tangible.
Taking a step back, I examined my visage from every angle, marveling at the face staring back at me. Then, as if by instinct, my fingers grazed over my features, tracing every curve and contour of my cheekbones and jawline.
«W-Wahh? Haha, w-what? T-This... this isn't real, haha» A nervous laugh escaped my lips. «But... who the f—?»
I stared in awe at the captivating brown eyes, the tousled chestnut hair, the flawless lips, and the smooth, velvety complexion. This isn't me—who the fuck is this handsome guy?!
Truly, my face was one of unparalleled beauty, the kind you'd expect to see on characters from a teenage fantasy drama—like Riverdale, I suppose. Or maybe that Korean show I recently watched: Business Proposal?
As for my physique, my upper body was proportioned just right for my frame, while my legs seemed slightly longer than average, leading me to estimate my height at roughly
Was this a mere figment of my imagination—a fleeting dream conjured by the whimsical musings of my mind? I shook my head, attempting to dispel such notions; yet they lingered, tormenting me with their relentless inquiries.
Indeed, the dreams of most young men—or at least the hypothetical scenarios they entertain—often revolve around the tantalizing prospect of being undeniably attractive.
"What if I were more handsome?" echoes the essence of this moment.
Whether envisioning the athletic prowess of a sportsman like Michael Phelps, the lean elegance of a celebrated actor like DiCaprio when he was young, or a face so captivating that, regardless of one's physique, it commands attention and stirs envy in other men.
These musings are reflections that likely grace the minds of many young individuals at least once. Not to neglect the fairer sex, of course; yet my speech leans toward the male perspective, as I am one myself.
And truthfully, despite harboring such vain questions, the desire to be more attractive has never consumed me; nor have I envied those who have been blessed with such qualities
But let's be honest: without a doubt, when standing beside someone of superior aesthetic appeal—side by side—, a perceptible shift occurs that diverts attention away from oneself.
The reaction? A preference to get out of there or, in more desperate minds, to wish for the rival's sudden vanishing.
Perpetually, I have gravitated toward the first option; I found a peculiar consolation in self-effacement, where my subdued presence became an unremarkable constant.
As for the latter option, it seemed an inconceivable indulgence, reserved for those caught by the clutches of jealousy and malice.
Now, to claim that my paradoxical aversion to beauty never manifested in any tangible form would itself be a falsehood.
In certain scenarios, particularly in the company of Isaac, I couldn't help but notice how he effortlessly commanded attention. Though his appearance was relatively normal, it was his eloquence that made him stand out.
Isaac's articulate demeanor rendered him the focal point of any social gathering; it was this charisma that partially endeared him to the women at parties. Meanwhile, I remained the silent observer, content—or so I told myself—with my peripheral role.
To make matters worse, I often found myself relegated entirely on those wild evenings.
Consequently, if I had a marginal increase in attractiveness, I think I could exempt myself from the need for verbal engagement with other individuals, and at least one girl, I think—regardless of whether I consider her ugly or pretty—would approach me.
That desire: was it envy? I had no intention of seeking a girlfriend, yet I yearned, at the very least, for a girl to speak to me.
However, if such a latent wish were to manifest through some cruelly binding "ritual pact," demanding a sacrifice—or rather, a "symbolic murder"—of the living entity that was my former self, I would reject such a transformation outright.
And yet, I cast my gaze upon the mirror once more and... whoa, I realize it's no one else but me.
Feeling a tinge of grogginess, I decided to perform a series of minor reality checks in an attempt to rouse myself: A pinch to the cheeks, a vigorous slap to my thighs, an utterly useless karate kick into the air, and, as a finale, a sharp punch to the wall, eliciting an involuntary yelp of pain.
Dear God. Regrettably, none of these measures seemed to provide any solace or clarity. I was, somehow, genuinely terrified.
Suddenly, an impulsive urge surged through me, and I let out a cry, «Mom!», with all the fervor of a frightened child.
Without hesitation, I rushed toward the door of the room, flinging it open with a sharp motion and, crossing its threshold, there it was the corridor that led to a flight of stairs.
However, as I stood there, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was distinctly amiss.
«...Huh? What's this?» I murmured, barely audible, tinged with apprehension.
The steps, which in my house used to be curved and winding downward, was now a stark, unyielding straight line.
From above, I glimpsed a shaft of light spilling from a spacious room, hinting at the presence of more chambers beyond.
Yet, overwhelmed by a whirlwind of confusion and disorientation, I found myself paralyzed, unable to decide where to go or what to do. I simply stood still, frozen in place.
At that moment, the voice of a woman—soft, mature, and imbued with a warmth that soothed the sharp edges of my nerves—resounded through the air, answering my desperate cry for help:
«Yes, what is it?» she asked, her tone calm and reassuring.
Oh my God; the sweet cadence of my beloved mother's voice—I could hear it!
«W-Where are you?» I inquired, searching for the source of her mellifluous voice.
Her words seemed to drift from beyond my room, to the port side of my door, and below. With a moment's deduction, I surmised she must be there. Given her reluctance to come to me, I took the initiative and hurried over.
Descending the staircase, my gaze swept my surroundings and I saw that the steps led directly to a doorway which was, in all probability, the main entrance to the dwelling.
However, without pausing to investigate this peculiar detail, I turned decisively to my right. At the first sight of an opening, I crossed a threshold that was conspicuously devoid of a door.
It was at that moment that my eyes were met with a view that blended modernity with a sense of comfort.
The abode, as presented to me, was tastefully decorated, with a subdued color scheme that exuded a sense of placidity.
The chamber was rather large, but served its purpose with diligence; the kitchen and living room shared the same open area, seamlessly integrated.
The living room featured three sofas, their exteriors clad in sleek leather. Opposite them was a distinguished entertainment center, enclosing a flat-screen television, emitting a graceful glow. And on the walls hung a series of paintings and photos.
The kitchen, on the other hand, was modest in size but fully equipped. A compact stove and a refrigerator, cleverly concealed within the cabinetry; adjacent to the kitchen was the dining nook, consisting of a petite table and four chairs—perfectly suited for intimate meals.
Is this a hotel? That was the first thought that sprang to mind. The space was impeccably tidy, almost as though it had been newly purchased.
As I scrutinized the room further, my eyes finally landed on my mother. She was seated comfortably on one of the couches, her attention wholly absorbed by the screen of her phone.
With my heart oppressed with trepidation, her eyes met mine and my spirit sank into uncharted depths. For before me stood a woman who bore no resemblance to the one I had always known as my mother.
Gone were the familiar features that defined her: the lustrous chestnut hair, the evocative light eyes, and the fair Caucasian complexion. In her stead was a woman of unmistakable Asian descent, radiating an aura of grace and elegance that seemed to flow from every fiber of her being.
Her skin was like porcelain, smooth and flawless, and her jet black hair cascaded down her back like a river of onyx. Her almond-shaped eyes were a deep, piercing black, and seemed to contain within them a wisdom and a recondite understanding that was beyond my knowing.
The impact of this transformation was nearly unbearable, and for a moment, I stood frozen, utterly uncertain of how to proceed—once again.
«U-Uh… Uhum! W-Who are you, ma'am?»
My lips parted, and my voice escaped, tentative and wavering. My demeanor was cautious, for I was unaccustomed to the presence of this unfamiliar individual. Maybe, just maybe, she was a friend of hers; but, never in my life I've seen her.
Even if I'm wrong, my so-called "mother's friend" noticed my aloofness and perceived my countenance with a keen eye. Rising from her seat to approach me with cautious steps, her face deserting anxiety as she sought to discover the root of my distress.
Then she inquired:
T-Takumi, I heard that. But, who the hell is Takumi? Who is she talking about?
I know that's a name; however, why is she pronouncing the words like that? It sounds so damn strange. Somehow, I understood it, but… what did she mean?
Despite her gentle hint, I inexplicably took a step back, then another, as if some latent vigor compelled me to keep my distance.
Without thinking, I raised my right arm with the intention of scratching my hair, then gradually ran my fingers across my entire scalp, glancing around as if I couldn't believe what was unfolding before my very eyes.
This is not my house. This lady is not my mother. Where the fuck am I?
«Uhm, okay. Oof, oh my god. Lady! Lady, listen—are you going to answer my question? Who are you?»
Despite my initial confusion, she remained steadfast—her gaze fixed upon me, brimming with a palpable concern. Was this an expression of genuine kindness or merely the agitation of someone being upset?
It's this, precisely this dubious constancy that grates on my nerves
Why, though? I ask myself. Perhaps it is because, in the end, I am the root of her unease; my actions, deviating from the expected social script, have invited an unwelcome spotlight.
To be the source of such sincere disquiet provokes an overwhelming sense of shame. A peculiar dilemma, I must admit, born entirely of my own making.
Never before had I found myself in such a perplexing predicament—one that left me utterly ignorant of its true nature and, consequently, powerless.
Those eyes—they're genuine, I thought. I've never had such piercing examples settled upon me; either indifference or my own adeptness at concealing my emotions had always shielded me from being scrutinized so deeply. But it's understandable, given how rarely I find myself in such a frazzled state.
Yet, despite the discomfort—sweat trickling down my temples, my eyes wide with unease—my anxiety only intensifies. This reality, only refuses to align with the expectations I had unconsciously set for myself.
I had envisioned myself—solely and only me—as the sole subject of a fantastical transformation, primarily physical in nature. Such a scenario, while absurd, would at least feel self-contained.
But the idea that those around me might undergo similar changes? Fuck, that possibility had never crossed my mind.
In retrospect, I should have seen it coming. The clues were so obvious: the unprecedented of the room, the absence of the spiral staircase, the altered aspect of the house. Every detail had been laid bare before me, demanding recognition.
But how? And why? Is this merely magic—some inexplicable, supernatural phenomenon? Or is there a sophisticated mechanism at work here, or perhaps even a malevolent force orchestrating it all?
I would like to repeat my question: Is this a dream?
«Don't play dumb with me, lady, alright? I need an answer asap. Who are you? Where am I? Is—Is this some kind of... hallucination? Am I having a—Ha-ha—a mental breakdown?»
Even though I had likened this situation to physical actions, my brain refused to process the information with any semblance of efficiency. Rather, it outright rejected the task.
The truth was undeniable—I could no longer maintain my skeptical facade. I needed to regain composure.
I moderated my breathing; however, my body seemed to have its own agenda, with my pinky finger quivered uncontrollably
Despite her apparent concern for my condition, the woman before me maintained an air of composed serenity. Her response, though firm, carried an undercurrent of reassurance:
«Would you answer me, please?! W-What are you even talking about?! I can't understand what you're sayi—No, like... I do understand you, somehow... But... Wh-Wh—Answer me alread—»
«I'm your mother, Takumi! Is that what you wanted to hear?
That was the decisive phrase.
Her voice reverberated through the room, cutting through the haze of my earlier delirium with unsettling ease.
«No, y-you... You're not.»
As the words left my lips, my breath grew shallow, erratic; my legs, shaky and unsteady, struggled to bear my weight. The trembling—unprovoked by any physical exertion—must have been the strain of my overtaxed reasoning.
Damn it. My hands, acting on their own, buried my face within their grasp. Overloaded by disbelief, my vision began to blur. The room around me seemed to dissolve into a watery haze, and before I could stop it, a solitary tear slipped free.
«Okay, I-I see. Oof, wow, haha...»
«...Takumi?»
I attempt to proceed cautiously, but this is totally exhausting—even for someone like me, who rarely gets emotionally driven.
At first, I almost enjoy the novelty of the situation, marveling at my altered appearance with a faint sense of amusement. But now I realize that I'm not the one experiencing it; I'm sure I'm living someone else's life. I've been reincarnated, haven't I?
And yet, for such a miraculous circumstance to transpire, there is no denying that I must have died first. And so, I did. Confronting that experience, despite my efforts to face it with bravado and conceited arrogance, was nothing short of terrifying.
It's not that I ever entertained thoughts of suicide; rather, it was that, in that singular moment before death, I was incapable of begging for my life. As a result, I faced my execution with a foolish sense of proud haughtiness.
I prided myself on my inner monologues, crafting them with care, focusing on the aspects of myself I deemed worthy of admiration. I was always acutely aware of others' opinions, though I've come to realize how utterly unnecessary that was.
I had nothing to lose—no dreams to chase, no accomplishments to boast about. I was merely a student who fancied himself clever—though there were always peers who outshone me. Perhaps I stood out in that regard, but it was nothing of real significance.
However, now that I inhabit this new visage, there is a strange sensation—melancholy, isn it? I mourn the loss of the fool I once was, knowing full well I'll never be the same again.
And, I am certain I wasn't the only one who met their end that day. The memory of those fatal gunshots echoes vividly in my mind, reverberating from below. Someone else must have been killed alongside me.
Damn it—was it my stepfather? My uncles? Or could it have been...
«Shit!»
I'm unraveling. Tormenting myself for no reason! I'm letting this sorrow consume me—conjuring images I'd rather not envision. What the hell is happening to me?
I'm fucking myself up! Tormenting myself for no reason! I'm letting sadness consume me, conjuring up images I'd rather not imagine! What the hell happened to me?
Ugh! I need to pull myself together—immediately and decisively. This is agonizing, yes, but what the hell am I going to do about it? I must break free from this mental quagmire; I must look forward—no matter how daunting the path ahead may be.
«Hey, hey! Listen to me. Are you listening?»
Abruptly, a hand reached out to me, unbidden yet gentle, encircling mine with an unexpected tenderness. One palm cradled the underside of my trembling hand, while the other rested atop it, as if to impart a calming influence—a silent reassurance I hadn't realized I craved.
At that moment, her hoyened voice resonated with a disarming sympathy, pleading softly:
«It's okay, it's okay. Calm down. Everything's going to be alright. Please, breathe in and out»
She began to stroke my hand with a slow, rhythmic motion, reminiscent of soothing a skittish animal—deliberate, tender, and patient. Her words, repeated in a tone as warm as sunlight filtering through a windowpane, carried an inexplicable comfort:
«You look very tense, my son»
«...!»
«Relax, okay? You probably had a panic attack. A-Are you stressed? Do you want me to prepare dinner for you tonight?»
There were no words in my vocabulary, no expressions I could summon, to encapsulate the sensation coursing through me.
Magically—yes, magically—her comforting words quelled the tempest of my overwhelming anxiety. If there ever was such a thing as maternal power, this was it, plain and undeniable.
Not even ten seconds passed before she seemed to recognize that I was finally at ease. She granted me a kind, affectionate smile, then gently cupped my cheek and used her thumb to wipe away the dampness from my face.
This turn of events is, to be honest, rather surprising. This woman knows exactly what she's doing—it's as if she has a manual for these situations.
I swallowed hard, pinched my nose, and exhaled forcefully through it, then out my mouth, expelling any lingering discomfort. Though, immediately after, I started coughing:
«Coff... Coff, coff!» Quite a bit.
«Are you okay?»
«No... No, shoot. My head hurts so bad» I replied, clutching my forehead like it was a basketball.
On the other hand, at some point, I'd have to face my situation with some semblance of resolve, and this moment made it easier to start piecing things together.
Finally, with my eyes now relaxed and my headache subsiding, I took a steady breath, gathering the courage to ask her:
«Alright...
She frowned slightly, unable to comprehend why that was the burning question I needed answered. Her expression shifted to one of mild puzzlement as her eyebrows raised ever so slightly, and a soft sigh escaped her lips, punctuated by a tender smile.
With nothing but good intentions, she replied:
It was at that moment that I realized—this was the name of the protagonist in that dating sim. A fact I had conveniently overlooked until now.
And so, it dawned on me: this individual, now me, was Takumi—the charmer, the Casanova.
As these reflections consumed my mind, my mother interjected with a concerned tone:
A-Ah, what? Damn, she just spoke at a mile a minute. Her words poured down on me like a torrential downpour, and I was struggling to keep up with the deluge of concerns flooding my mind.
At the very least, I managed to grasp her message. In an attempt to calm the storm, I replied with as much composure as I could muster:
Upon hearing my words, my mother responded swiftly, clearly unconvinced by the simplicity of my explanation:
With a nervous grimace, I countered quickly:
Or, at least, that's what I hoped was true.
She stopped her locution for a moment to attend to my words, and then honored me with a warmhearted expression, speaking in sigh with a pleasant tone:
Then, she let go of my hand and, with a graceful step, headed towards the kitchen, her voice trailing behind her:
Apple bunnies?
At that, I heard her laugh and then she commented:
She nodded at my words as I watched her pick up an apple and a knife.
Every time I feel completely disconnected from myself, I can't help but marvel at the absurdity of it all.
I slumped onto the table, stretching out my arm, and stared at its slender frame as if it belonged to someone else. I was still in shock, but... let's try to see the bright side.
"Behold, fools! Feast your eyes, for this is my new existence. This is the new me!" I'd scream it aloud if I had the courage—or the energy—to do so.
It's such a colossal shift, so incomprehensible, that I was muttering colorful curses into the indifferent air around me.
To be brutally honest, I'd grown so accustomed to seeing my old self in the mirror that I actually found myself longing for my original body—despite its flaws—over this… aesthetically perfect one.
And if it's true, if I really am trapped in this ridiculous dating sim, does that mean my fate is already written?
No. I'd like to think I still have a few tricks up my sleeve, a few paths to carve out for myself in pursuit of a life of hedonistic pleasure.
Though, maybe I'm just deluding myself. Maybe the only options I have are to endure painfully cliché conversations with tsundere girls. If that's the case, I might actually prefer death. No, no—I should stop saying that.
Still, I can't help but wonder: does this new appearance come with certain advantages? Or, on the contrary, will it only complicate things further?
Ugh, who knows? It seems the future remains as unpredictable as ever.