The night I died I had no regrets or ties to this world.
Before everything changed, I was just an ordinary guy—a jack-of-all-trades who never quite nailed anything down. I dabbled in art, science, literature, and whatever else caught my attention, but in the end, I was always left with a mixed bag of half-baked ideas and unmet expectations. My family, ever the high-achievers, had made it clear that mediocrity was not in the family gene. While they polished their trophies and celebrated every small success, I became known as the black sheep—the guy who managed to be involved in everything without really belonging anywhere.
I often joked that my resume was a masterclass in "trying and failing," a fact that became both a source of embarrassment and an odd kind of pride. In those moments of despair, when the pressure to excel felt like a ton of bricks crashing in, I'd find myself laughing at the absurdity of it all. "Well, at least I'm consistent," I'd say, wryly acknowledging that being good at nothing was, strangely enough, my specialty.
Growing up, I hopped from one interest to the next, collecting hobbies like others collected stamps. I tried painting, tinkered with experiments, and even lost myself in books that promised the secrets of the universe. Yet, every time I attempted to commit to one path, life reminded me that I was a master of none. I often caught myself smiling at the irony: here I was, armed with a mind that could chew on many topics at once, yet unable to digest even one completely. It was as if I had all the ingredients for a gourmet meal but could never quite master the recipe.
Day after day, the little reminders of my shortcomings piled up—an untouched cup of coffee each morning, awkward silences when I tried to join in on conversations, and those looks from relatives that said, "There goes our prodigal son… again." Even when I tried to laugh it off with a joke, the laughter was tinged with sadness. I'd often quip, "At least I'm consistent—consistently inconsistent!" But deep down, I wondered if my ability to joke about my failures was a shield, a way to make the unbearable a little more bearable.
The turning point wasn't marked by a grand, catastrophic event. Instead, it crept in slowly, like a series of small missteps that eventually led me to stand still. I began to let go of the little routines that once provided comfort—the morning coffee that turned lukewarm too quickly, the half-finished projects gathering dust in the corner of my room. I stopped forcing myself into roles that never really suited me. One rainy evening, while sitting alone in my cluttered apartment with nothing but the steady patter of raindrops for company, I found myself grinning at the sheer absurdity of my situation. "Guess it's time to cash in my membership card to Life's Mediocrity Club," I muttered to no one in particular.
I wasn't seeking a dramatic exit, nor was I overcome by a burst of anger or sorrow. I simply allowed myself to fade out slowly, almost as if I were winding down after a long, unremarkable day. There was a calm in that gradual surrender—a relief that came from finally accepting that I wasn't cut out for the grand expectations imposed on me. Even as I let go, my sense of humor remained a stubborn companion. I'd catch myself laughing at the absurdity of it all: a life spent trying to be extraordinary only to be, well, extraordinary at being ordinary.
In those final hours, I couldn't help but recall the quirks of my past—the laughter shared over simple meals with my family, the banter with friends that made even my failures seem charming. It was in those small moments that I realized how deeply intertwined my identity was with both my successes and my shortcomings. I missed the familiar chaos of everyday life, the imperfect routines that, for all their flaws, had given me a sense of belonging.
Standing in front of the mirror during those twilight moments, I saw not just the tired face of a man who'd given up on living up to others' expectations, but also the smudges of a life that had been lived with a peculiar blend of self-deprecation and humor. I was someone who had taken life's punches with a wry smile, someone who could make a joke even as the final act was drawing near. I wasn't a hero by any stretch of the imagination; I was simply the guy who, against all odds, could laugh at his own misfortune.
I left many questions unanswered—questions about why I had become the perpetual underachiever, about whether the pressure to be someone else had driven me to this quiet collapse. Was it the string of small failures, the constant feeling of being on the outside looking in, or just the simple weight of expectations that I could never quite live up to? I didn't have all the answers, and I purposely left those details in the shadows for now, hints of a deeper story that would be unraveled with time.
I allowed life to slowly slip away, I couldn't shake the small, hopeful thought that maybe this end was just a precursor to a new beginning—a chance to leave behind a world that never really understood me and step into one where my unique mix of humor and mediocrity might finally be appreciated. And so, with one last wry smile at the absurdity of it all, I let go, ready to see what lay beyond the familiar borders of my old life.
As darkness seeped in, a familiar music played. A phone, my phone, was ringing, and my eyes couldn't believe what they were seeing. Was it just the allucinations of a dying man? I took the call, and got the answer through my ears. My dad, who I hadn't seen or talked to in these months since I left their house, was talking to me, crying, sobbing. He told me that he missed me, that he knew he hadn't treated me fairly all these years, and that he was really worried.
I really, truly, couldn't believe my ears, or eyes, or whatever I was experiencing. It had to be some kind of punishment, I either had to be in heaven or in hell, but I just couldnt believe this was actually happening.
I tried to talk to him, to answer his words, but nothing came out of my mouth, I couldn't do it, I was too weak to even talk. It was at that moment that I regretted everything, letting myself starve, dehydrate and rot in bed to death. I wanted to take all back, but only three words came out of my mouth.
"Dad… help… dying…"
And just like that, everything turned black. I can only remember flashes of light and sound. The door opening with a loud bang, people crying loudly, an ambulance, a beeping sound, beeping increasingly faster, and faster, until it was just a continuous, long, loud noise. I remember immense pressure on my chest, sharp, sudden pain.
But in the end, it was all for nothing, everything turned away.
The night I died, I had no regrets or ties to this world. The night I died, regretted everything, and I hated leaving my family behind, crying at my death in front of my corpse.
After that final moment, everything went black. I found myself in a vast emptiness, unsure of what was happening. It wasn't peaceful, but it wasn't terrifying either—just an endless void that left me feeling lost and bewildered.
Then, gradually, I noticed a faint light. It wasn't bright or blinding, just a soft glow that seemed to beckon me. As the light grew, I became aware of new sensations: muffled sounds, a gentle warmth, and a sense of being cradled. I couldn't make sense of it all; it was as if I was caught between two worlds, not fully understanding either.
Suddenly, I felt a rush, like being pulled through a tunnel. The darkness gave way to a blur of colors and sounds. I tried to move, to speak, but everything felt… different. My limbs were uncoordinated, my voice nonexistent. Panic set in briefly, but then I realized—I was alive, but in a way I couldn't comprehend.
As my vision cleared, I saw unfamiliar faces looking down at me, speaking in a language I didn't recognize. I wanted to ask questions, to understand where I was, but all I could manage was a feeble cry. It dawned on me, slowly and shockingly. I was… a baby?
I noticed everything around me. The walls were made out of wood, the rough clothes the people around me were wearing, everything seemed so… old, so rough, so medieval.
It all came down like I had been thrown a rock. I was a baby, those were my parents and I was in a place I didn't remotely know and a language I had never heard.
This wasn't the world I knew. This was another world.