I never finished anything I started.
Whenever I tried to do something, I overthought it too much.
I could never stay focused on one thing. One moment I was here, the next, somewhere else.
I saw myself standing still while the world moved forward.
I heard the success stories of people around me—people who became what I wanted to be.
I lost people I thought would stand by me forever.
I lost time.
My room felt different—the once dimly lit space now basked in the warm glow of the setting sun.
The room that once felt warm now felt chilly. The gun barrel pressed against my skull was cold and silent. My hand trembled. My body tightened. My knees shook.
My finger reached for the trigger. A thousand emotions surged through me, but two dominated:
The dread of what would happen once I was gone...
And the relief that it would all be over.
I didn't know what would happen after death, but in that moment, it felt peaceful. Everything around me looked different... felt different.
I tried to take it all in. My eyes rested on a picture sitting on the table—a photo of four people laughing with ice cream. My mom, dad, me, my older brother, and sister.
It was such an ordinary picture, the kind you'd find in any household. But with the cold barrel against my head, it became something more. A silent movie playing in my mind, capturing every joy, sadness, and ounce of suffering the photo had witnessed.
Staring at it, the memories calmed me. My body relaxed. My mind emptied.
A painful laugh escaped my lips.
Then, I pulled the trigger.
Bang.
My skull exploded. Blood and brain matter splattered across the room, reaching the picture and its memories. They were washed away with the blood, forever forgotten.
&@&@*$@%@!
"Ughhhh..."
**#@&##&!
"Ugh... my head, it's killing me!"
#&@^&#&&@&
"What are they saying? Make them stop!"
You killed him, idiot!
But I... would... ne...ver—
Yes, you did! Let's run before someone finds out!
"What are they saying? Who killed who?"
Before I could comprehend what was going on, hurried footsteps echoed—and whoever they were, they left.
Cough.
I jerked my head up. I was lying face down. A coughing fit wracked my body.
Cough.
Cough.
My eyes burned, tears blurring my vision. A metallic taste filled my mouth. My throat burned.
My body felt heavy. I couldn't balance myself. I fell on my back.
As my eyes cleared, an unfamiliar ceiling came into view. The harsh white light stung.
I looked around—I was in a bathroom.
There were so many things that confused me. I tried to move, but my body wouldn't respond. I tried to speak.
W...here... a.m... I?
Suddenly, my head throbbed, pain splitting through it.
"Ahhhhhh!"
And then, everything went dark.
My eyes fluttered open again.
Another unfamiliar ceiling. But this time… it felt familiar.
So strange.
My name is Kevin Roth—more specifically, the name of the body I now inhabit.
A twelve-year-old boy who lost his father to war. A mother, lying in a coma. A younger brother, just ten years old.
He worked at a local fight ring, cleaning up the mess after each brutal match. They didn't allow outsiders, especially not kids—but they let him in. A child draws less suspicion. And they could always "dispose" of him if things went south.
He knew that too.
But he still worked there. The pay was good, and when no one was looking, he scavenged valuables from the dead bodies.
Even then, he and his brother could barely eat. Most of the money went toward their mother's hospital bills.
And in the end, he died—beaten to death by bullies in the washroom.
What he left behind was only pain, suffering, and loss—things I've inherited.
"Poor soul."
A voice came from outside the door.
"He's lost too much blood. And with that head wound, he's in a coma now."
Despite the words, the voice held no comfort—emotionless and cold.
Another voice responded, gruff and uncertain.
"So... what are we going to do with him?"
The first voice spoke again, still flat:
"You know what will happen. Why ask? Don't waver now. There's too much on the line."
Frustrated, the gruff voice snapped:
"I know, damn it! Just... how much longer? How much time? How much of this?!"
"We don't know, Terek. Maybe... a year or two."
Terek? Isn't he the combat teacher? My thoughts raced. Unease crept in. I tried to stay calm.
"One year or two, huh? Fine, Peter. But after that—I'm out."Terek's voice trembled with helplessness.
I don't know what they're planning, but if they think I'm in a coma… I don't know what they'll do to me.I decided then—I'd pretend I just woke up and heard nothing.
Outside the curtain, two men stood: Terek and Peter. The silence between them was heavy. Terek looked nervous.
"Damn it, I shouldn't have said that..."
Peter leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
"You think he'll let you leave?"
The color drained from Terek's face. He imagined the consequences.
"No... no, I didn't mean it that way. The plan won't fail. We'll sell this child—"
Cough.
A cough interrupted him mid-sentence.
Terek's eyes widened.
Peter gestured for him to smile, then pulled the curtain aside.