Feelings of despair are always deep, rooted all the way in the depths of our trauma. Trauma that we neither accept nor deny. We keep it bottled up until it fills and fills and fills—until the bottle can't take it anymore. Until the bottle can't hold on anymore, leaking out as cries, tears, and anger.
Then, with just one more touch of misfortune, the balance breaks. The peace fades, exploding into pure chaos. As people say, all it takes is one bad day for your true self to come blurting out. The true self that was there from the start—festering, waiting to be unleashed, waiting to pounce on you like a heavy fever.
"And we, as humans we are crack and we shatter into a million pieces. Not because we're weak—but because we've been holding it together for so damn long."
Arnold stared at the empty beer bottle in his hand, its amber glass catching the dim light of his apartment like a dying star. He tilted it back, hoping—praying—for just one more drop to crawl down his throat and fill the void that stretched inside him like an endless chasm. But no. It was bone-dry, just like everything else in his life.
He laughed—a hollow, bitter sound that ricocheted off the walls of his tiny studio apartment. The laughter turned into a cough, which turned into silence. His eyes burned as he glanced around the room. Empty pizza boxes stacked precariously on the coffee table. Clothes scattered across the floor like casualties of war. And there, glowing faintly from the desk monitor, was the game he'd been playing all night: 'Lara's Romance Chronicles'. A stupid little sim where you played as a princess with everything handed to her on a silver platter. Family loved her. Friends adored her. Even her stepbrother couldn't keep his hands off her without feeling guilty about it first.
"God," Arnold muttered, slurring slightly as he leaned forward in his chair. "How the fuck do people even live like this? Perfect fucking lives… perfect fucking families…" His voice trailed off as he reached for another beer from the six-pack beside him. Only one left.
"Guess I'll have to finish this route before I get another," he mumbled to himself, clicking through the dialogue options on-screen. Lara smiled brightly at him—or rather, at the character he controlled—as she confessed her undying love for her stepbrother. Her words were saccharine sweet, dripping with sincerity that made Arnold want to gag.
But he didn't stop. No, he clicked 'Next' again and again, watching their pixel-perfect romance unfold while his own world crumbled into ash behind him.
Earlier that day, Arnold had walked out of his office for the last time. His boss—a man whose name he could barely remember now—had called him into the conference room under the pretense of discussing "new opportunities." What came next was a rehearsed speech about budget cuts and restructuring, delivered with the kind of detached professionalism that felt like a slap in the face.
"I'm sorry, Arnold," the man had said, not looking sorry at all. "We appreciate your hard work, but…"
But what? Arnold hadn't stayed to hear the rest. He'd nodded stiffly, grabbed his things, and walked out without saying goodbye to anyone. Not that anyone would've cared. They were probably already updating LinkedIn profiles and sending congratulatory messages to whoever replaced him.
And then there was Claire. His fiancée—or ex-fiancée now, apparently. She'd texted him less than an hour after he got home:
"Hey, I heard about your job. Are you okay?"
He'd stared at the message for a full minute before replying:
"Yeah, I'm fine."
She hadn't responded. Not immediately, anyway. When she finally did, it wasn't with concern or comfort—it was with distance. Cold, clinical distance.
"I think we need some space right now. This isn't working anymore."
That was it. No explanation. No argument. Just two sentences that sliced deeper than any blade ever could. He'd read them over and over, each word carving itself into his chest until breathing hurt more than anything else.
And then came the call—or rather, the lack of one. His family's annual New Year celebration was tonight, and somehow, they'd forgotten to invite him. Again. His sisters had posted pictures online—smiling faces, champagne flutes raised high—but Arnold wasn't in any of them. Why would he be? He was the middle child, the invisible one. The guy who never quite measured up.
So here he sat, alone in his shitty apartment, drowning himself in beer and bad decisions. Because what else was there to do?
"....I haven't completed the stepbrother route yet. I should finish that also, but before that... another one..." he bellowed, his shout reeking of a drunkard.
As he stood up, he paced toward the fridge, his steps lurching here and there—until, inevitably, he stepped on a beer bottle, slipping headfirst.
DEEEKKK!!!
The sound of breaking glass jolted Arnold out of his thoughts. One moment, he was reaching for another beer; the next, he was sprawled on the floor, blood pooling beneath his head. Pain shot through his skull like fireworks exploding in reverse, sharp and blinding. He tried to sit up, but the room spun violently, forcing him back down.
His trembling fingers brushed against the wound on his forehead, coming away slick with crimson. Panic bubbled up in his chest as he fumbled for his phone, dialing 911 with shaking hands. But halfway through the call, something stopped him. Something deep inside whispered, 'What's the point?'
He hung up before the operator could answer.
"Maybe..." Arnold whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding in his ears. "Maybe I should just... give up."
Tears blurred his vision as he lay there, staring up at the cracked ceiling tiles above him. Memories flooded back—childhood Christmases spent sitting quietly in the corner while his sisters opened presents, high school prom nights spent alone in his bedroom replaying old video games, college parties where he lingered awkwardly by the punch bowl until someone finally noticed him. All those years of trying—and failing—to matter to anyone.
It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. But maybe fairness didn't exist in the first place. Maybe life was just a cruel joke designed to break you piece by piece until there was nothing left.
A strange sense of calm washed over him as the thought settled in. If this was the end, then fine. Let it be. He'd done his best, hadn't he? Sure, he'd failed more times than he could count, but at least he'd tried. At least he hadn't given up completely... until now.
With a soft sigh, Arnold closed his eyes, letting the darkness creep in. For the first time in years, he felt... peaceful.
"Goodbye," he murmured, his lips curling into a faint smile.
.
.
.
[Your solem wish is heard]
[Death confirmed]
[Activating System.....]
[Activated]
[Transfering soul...]
[Transfer complete.]
[Error Error....Host's Memories still intact.]
[Removing Memories....]
[....Failed]
[Removing Memories Again....]
[...Failed.]
[...Failed]
[...Failed]
[Failed]
[Adding perks due to Memory removal failure]
[Adding...Adding.....Adding.]
[1%..8%....50%..90%..100%]
[Completed]
[Welcome Host]
The echo of an anglic voice—a tone too polished, too perfect to belong to anyone mortal—ripped through his skull like nails on glass. For a second, Arnold thought he'd died. Maybe that crack on his head had finally done him in. Or maybe this was just another layer of hell reserved for losers who spent their last moments clutching beer bottles and playing dating sims.
He groaned, dragging himself out of what felt like quicksand made of cotton candy. His eyes were glued shut, heavy as stone slabs, but his brain? Oh, it was wide awake, screaming obscenities at the universe for making him endure one more round of existence.
"…what does a man have to do to get a decent death bed?" he muttered under his breath, each word dripping with acid sarcasm.
His eyelids peeled open like old wallpaper, revealing a world bathed in blinding light. Not the fluorescent buzz of his shitty apartment—not even close. This place glittered like someone had vomited gold leaf all over everything. Gilded frames hung crookedly on walls painted silver; silk curtains shimmered faintly, catching rays from chandeliers dripping crystals. It smelled less like stale sweat and spilled booze and more like...well, money. Old money. The kind that didn't need to try.
"....what the actual fuck...is this heaven or some shit?" Arnold rasped, sitting upright on a bed that probably cost more than his entire life savings. He swung his legs over the edge, wincing at how soft the mattress was—it felt wrong, unnatural. Like lying down on clouds stuffed with guilt and regret.
Pacing around the room, he pulled back the golden curtain with fingers still sticky from last night's binge. Outside wasn't New York City anymore—or any city he recognized. Instead, sprawling fields stretched far beyond the horizon, dotted with castles straight out of medieval fairytales. Knights rode horses plated in armor shiny enough to blind gods, while peasants scurried about like ants beneath them.
"...eh yo, which floor am I at? Wait, is heaven just a place stuck in the 1990s or something?"
But before he could spiral further into existential dread (as if he hadn't already), movement caught his eye. A mirror stood propped against the wall near the door, its surface reflecting not the disheveled mess he expected—but someone else entirely.
".....wait, wait, wait..." Arnold stumbled toward it, jaw slackening as realization hit him like a freight train. Those sharp cheekbones? That mop of unruly black hair? Those piercing golden eyes? They weren't his—they couldn't be. Because staring back at him wasn't some nobody drowning in self-pity. No, it was Atlas—the main character from the very video game he'd been obsessively clicking through mere hours ago.
"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS THIS?! AM I IN SOME KIND OF COSPLAY NIGHTMARE OR SOMETHING?!" he shouted, pinching his cheeks hard enough to bruise. The reflection mimicked every move perfectly, confirming what his panicked mind refused to accept: somehow, impossibly, he'd become Atlas. Video Game Protagonist Extraordinaire™.
He turned sharply, pacing faster now, muttering curses under his breath loud enough to make sailors blush. "So let me get this straight," he growled, running hands through hair that suddenly felt foreign yet infuriatingly familiar. "I'm dead—or high—or both—and now I'm living out my sad little fantasies trapped inside some anime reject's body? Fantastic. Just fucking fantastic."
Before he could throw anything remotely breakable (and there were plenty of candidates), the sound of footsteps froze him mid-rant. Turning slowly, almost mechanically, he spotted her—a maid standing awkwardly by the doorway, tray clutched tightly in trembling hands. Her uniform was pristine white, contrasting sharply with her wide, terrified eyes locked onto him.
"Ohhhhh shiiiiiit," she breathed, dropping the tray with a clatter loud enough to wake the dead. Which, ironically, might've included him.
"Haaaaaaa SHIT!" Arnold echoed, stumbling backward until his back hit the mirror behind him. Reflexively, he reached out, steadying himself—and accidentally knocking over a vase perched precariously nearby. It shattered spectacularly across the marble floor, shards scattering like broken promises.
For a moment, silence reigned supreme. Then—
"You—you're supposed to be DEAD!" she shrieked, pointing a shaky finger at him. "They SAID you wouldn't come back!"
Arnold blinked, processing her words slower than molasses. "...excuse me? Who said WHAT now?"