A rainy day. Something I actually like, at least.
I had just downed a full bottle of some pills. My hands still shook as I leaned onto the counter, staring blankly at its surface. So many questions stirred within my head: Was that the right thing I did? Was this really what I wanted? Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, growing louder with each step. My chest tightened. It was her. Mom. In a panic, I shoved the empty bottle into my pocket, my heart pounding as she entered the kitchen. Her eyes landed on me, standing stiffly by the counter, pretending to rummage through the snacks.
"Are you hungry? If you want, I could make you some noodles." she said with a warm smile. Her demeanor cut through me like a knife. She seemed so cheerful today, so at ease, and that made the weight in my chest unbearable. Guilt clawed at me. I forced a smile. "Thank you," I replied, my voice steady despite the lump in my throat. "I was just looking through the snacks."
She smiled again, a soft, motherly expression that made me feel even worse. "Oh, alright! Well, if you need anything, just ask."
"..." I nodded, silent as she turned toward the fridge.
I watched her rummage through it, pulling out a bottle of Fanta. She poured herself a cup and left the kitchen without another word. The door swung shut behind her, and the silence pressed down like a weight.
"Fuck."
I muttered under my breath, gripping the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles turned white. My fists clenched as I stared at the surface, my mind racing. She was so happy. So genuinely content. And I couldn't help but wonder… why?
Anyway, I shoved the thoughts aside and headed to my room. But even as I climbed the stairs, a strange mix of guilt and relief churned in my stomach. Dad was still at work and wouldn't be back until 7 p.m., while Mom was on a two-week break from her job. But that didn't mean she was free to relax. She had to deal with my spoiled little brother – a full-time job in itself. They were both under so much pressure, and yet…
Old memories forced their way into my mind, bitter and sharp. Dad, his face red with anger, beating me senseless because I wouldn't stop talking when I was just six years old. Mom, dragging me by the arm and hitting me even as I sobbed and begged her to stop, all because I missed one homework assignment in third grade. Both of them grounded me in fourth grade for not being a perfect student, isolating me from my friends and the world outside my room.
School was the only escape I had.
It was years ago, but the scars remained. Still, they weren't the same people now. They'd changed so much over the years. Maybe it was because they had me so young. They didn't know how to raise a kid, let alone a firstborn daughter. I suppose they let their own frustrations and insecurities do the parenting for them. When my younger brother came along, everything softened. They were older, calmer, and far more lenient. But that leniency had a cost: he turned into the most spoiled kid I'd ever seen. Seriously, it's like they handed him the golden ticket I'd never been allowed to touch. I couldn't help but feel jealous. He got what I didn't. A carefree childhood. Love without conditions. I hated it.
"I'm doing this because I love you."
That sentence. The one my parents always said when their hands struck me. It was supposed to be about correction discipline. Maybe it was for the better.
The beatings did help, in a twisted way. They subdued my tics, both motor and vocal. Of course, there are still some motor tics lingering, but they're no longer as sharp or uncontrollable as they were when I was eight. Those years were brutal, but the fear of punishment seemed to push everything into submission. The tics faded into the background. No one even notices them anymore, not even me.
Maybe they just couldn't afford therapy or treatment, and this was the only way they knew how to "fix" me. The right way, they probably thought. It hurt. God, it hurt. But somehow, over time, it taught me to cope. Now, when they hit me, I don't even flinch. I've grown numb to it. In fact, I've become immune. The pain, so constant, has woven itself into the fabric of who I am. It's like a shadow that's always been there. Something permanent, something I don't even react to anymore.
I walked into my room and collapsed onto the bed, letting out a heavy sigh. I grabbed my phone and headphones, zoning out to my favorite song on repeat. The music soothed me as my mind blanked out slowly.
***
I jolted awake, my heart racing as I rubbed my eyes and glanced around in confusion. I couldn't recognize where I was. 'How am I still alive? The number of pills I took should've been lethal for any average human being.' Panic set in as I quickly got out of bed, trying to make sense of my surroundings. Then I noticed a mirror on the wall to my right. But the reflection staring back wasn't mine.
" What the hell?"
I touched my face, caressing it, pinching it, hitting it. " That's not me. Why am I so pretty? What is happening? "
I had gray-tinted emerald eyes framed by long, delicate eyelashes. My brown hair flowed smoothly, with soft curls forming at the ends, adding a touch of elegance to its silky texture,with a lot of layers. It looked more of a punk-ish hair rather than elegant¿
I'm probably lucid dreaming. I thought and hoped. But, it was quite the opposite. 'I'm not that stupid to not know the difference between lucid dreaming and reality. And this definitely is real.'
I sat on the bed to think about what just happened.
I attempted to kill myself, but i suddenly woke up somewhere else. And this isn't my body.
Wait.
[ Welcome. ]
The memories of level up system manhwas i read all came running through my mind at a fast pace. My breath was heavier and deeper.
"!!!"
A system message.
[ you have entered an otome game. ]