(TW for feeling like you don't belong in your body/your body doesn't belong to you, minor accidental self-harm and minor mentions of blood, stay safe y'all)
He gasps as he springs up from the bed, sweat rolling down his temples as he does so. He breathes in deeply, as if he were making up for all the air he was missing in his dream.
His heart rate slowly evens out, and after a few moments of catching his breath, he can feel his panic start to fade away.
Until he takes notice of his surroundings.
He looks around the place in confusion, his eyes catching on the maroon colored curtains over a heavily ornamented glass window, or the red chair in the corner, the unfamiliar ceiling and the bed, which feels too soft and has too many pillows.
His heart stutters for a second, and then, he is panicking all over again, desperately stumbling out of bed and falling face first on the floor, ignoring the pain in favor of clawing at his bedsheets, attempting to free himself from them as he looks for something, anything that tells him that this is also a nightmare, a simple nightmare he'll wake up from in no time.
The pain from his fall is very much real though, and when he stares down at his hands, they look normal, exactly as they should.
No. NO.
no.
No. No.
no no No
NO.
NO . No. NO! No.
NO!
He'd read novels about this, reincarnation or transmigration novels where the protagonists died, leaving their boring, awful or mundane lives behind in favor of living out their dreams in a fantasy filled land, as a brave hero, a cunning noble or maybe just an incredibly rich and powerful young person.
But he doesn't want that, he never even wanted to die in the first place.
He can't help the way his chest constricts, and he feels sick to his stomach, it's like everything is spinning around him, the images of this forsaken place, unfamiliar in all it's aspects, melting together as he struggles to stand upright, he feels like he's sinking into the floor.
This can't be real, he tells himself, it can't.
He gasps for air, his chest heaving as he finally manages to achieve some level of stability. He tries pinching himself again, it's stupid, and it stings every single time, but he refuses to accept it, he doesn't want to have died, he can't have died.
What about his parents?
What about his college friend, whom he'd promised to go out for a beer with as soon as he started feeling better?
What about his promise to be better? For himself, and for hana?
He can allow his head to drop between his hands in despair, he can't even cry, he can't allow even a single drop of tears to fall from his face, when he can barely even think.
His body feels too heavy, it feels foreign and wrong, these arms, these hands, too soft and too pale, they don't belong to him, he doesn't want them. He wants his old arms back, he wants his old life back.
He stumbles his way through the room, feeling his knees and elbows rub against the carpet on the floor as he practically crawls across the mirror in the center of the room, in the middle of two cabinets who seem to have just so much thrown on top of them.
He grasps the borders of the mirror, and stares at the unfamiliar face in front of him as he can feel his breath stop and his body grow cold.
Ashy gray hair, his hair is black, black, not gray, his hair isn't fucking gray— and equally gloomy looking gray eyes, like a cloudy day, one you know is going to be awful but you still have to go through anyways, and they're down turned, and unfamiliar and wrong, everything is wrong, completely and utterly wrong!—
Before he can process what he's doing, he's already smashed the mirror, the cracks form, and it's almost like time has slowed down, and he can see every new line stretching from the center of the mirror to it's corners, and suddenly, time goes back to normal and he hears the crack as some shards fall, and his fist, still connected to the mirror, aches.
A thin trail of blood runs from the center of the mirror, running slowly down it's length, giving way for a small red droplet, that drips into the carpet, staining it red.
His fist is shaking, his entire arm is, and it hurts, but he can't help doing it again, punching it again and again until he knows the mirror is but a mess of shards, and his hand, a mess of cuts.
He let's out a strangled gasp as he buries his face in his hands once again.
He doesn't want this, he wants to go back, he'll be a better son, he'll be a better person, please, if there's any god out there, please take him back.
But no one listens, no gods take him back, and no comforting hand wraps around his shoulder, to ground him, to tell him that everything's going to be ok.
No one does anything.
--------------
(A/N same deal, you can skip ~)
Yooooo we're finally done with the prologue ish chapters!! (人*´∀｀)｡*ﾟ+
I have doubts about wether anyone is even going to bother reading this but anyways, I'm just glad to be done with this part, at least, if no one cares about this story in the end, I can give up on it and stop staying awake at night staring up at my ceiling as I think of it.
So, as you can see, I love my protagonist very much and he's completely emotionally and mentally stable and will go through a lot of happiness. (Lmao)
Anyways, please tell me if you'd be interested in a continuation, and make sure to point out any grammatical mistakes to me, I'd appreciate it a lot!
(人 •͈ᴗ•͈) Buh-Bye!
YOU ARE READING
Cursed Reincarnation
Fantasyhopes of becoming an excellent man like His parents had named him Hideaki, written with the Kanji for "excellent" and "bright". When he was 8 years old, his little sister was born. She was so much brighter, livelier than anyone else, warmer than the...
