You Were Born Inside Your Head

Chapter 4

When I opened my eyes again, the sterile whiteness of the room had been replaced with something far more mundane: a sparsely furnished nursery. The crib next to me was shaking with the force of the newborn's sobs. That's right, my twin, Gon, was crying his eyes out.

Great, just what I needed.

I rolled my eyes, which was surprisingly easy despite being a newborn, and took in the sad excuse for a nursery. The walls were a bland beige that screamed "budget," and the furniture looked like it had been picked up from the dumpster behind the local kindergarten. The only decoration was a single, torn poster of some anime I didn't recognize, which was probably a good thing given my current situation.

The crib beside me was a sad little affair, with bars that looked like they'd been chewed on by a very disillusioned rabbit and a mattress that screamed "I've seen better days." The baby in it was wailing like someone had just told him the Earth was flat. I could relate.

The nursery was about as cheerful as a clown at a funeral, with a single bulb hanging from the ceiling that flickered with the enthusiasm of a light bulb in a horror movie. The walls were a shade of beige that was the visual equivalent of a sigh, and the air smelled faintly of despair and baby powder.

It was like staring into the abyss of my lonely fridge back home, the one that only held a sad, wilted head of lettuce and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. But instead of cold emptiness, here was a sea of blankets and a blurry vision of a world I didn't ask to be born into again.

The crib to my right looked like it had been picked out of a dumpster fire, the kind you'd expect to find in a haunted house with a "Do Not Touch" sign. And here I was, a fresh meat sack in this twisted anime reboot of my life, with a twin who had the personality of a sack of potatoes. The whole scene was like my lonely fridge staring back at me, with the same sad, pathetic look that said, "Is this really it?"

The nursery's ambiance was the equivalent of swiping through my dating apps. Empty, uninspired, and with a hint of something that might make you question your life choices. The only difference was that I couldn't just swipe left on this shit and hope for something better to come along.

And speaking of choices, what the fuck was I supposed to do with this baby body and a newfound ability to summon anime characters? And with backlash that bad? It was like someone had handed me the world's shittiest cheat code for a game I didn't even want to play.

I lay there, listening to Gon's cries echo through the room, feeling about as useful as that one diamond vase my mom had.

The mattress was cold and hard, much like the tiles of my kitchen floor when I stumble out for a midnight snack, only to find nothing but a sad, forgotten slice of pizza, wrapped in plastic, begging for someone to love it.

The crip seemed to be whispering, "You're trapped here, little human," in a ghostly chorus that echoed through the empty space. It was the kind of crib that would give even a seasoned escape artist the heebie-jeebies, with the promise of a good night's sleep as absent as the milk that's always somehow vanished from my fridge before I can get to it.

Speaking of my fridge, the room's lack of anything edible was giving me serious pantry-at-midnight vibes. I'd have killed for a stale bag of chips or even that questionable tub of yogurt that's been sitting in the back for what felt like an eternity. But no, all I had was a room that was more bare than my fridge when I forgot to go grocery shopping for a week.

The world spinning like a poorly made gif. The pain from before was gone, but I felt like I'd just been hit by a truck that had the audacity to back up and do a victory lap. I looked around, and sure enough, I was still in the same nightmare scenario.

My throat was dry, and my mouth tasted like a dumpster fire behind a liquor store. God, I needed a beer or a cigarette, anything to numb the sensation of being stuck in this hellhole.

It was like the worst hangover I'd ever had, times a million, and I'd had some doozies. I could almost feel the furry's sadistic laughter echoing through the room, taunting me with every throb in my head.

My mouth felt like the Sahara, my tongue a desolate wanderer in search of an oasis of moisture. All I wanted was a cold beer, the kind that hits the back of your throat like a cool breeze on a hot day, or a cigarette, the sweet embrace of smoke curling around me like a comforting blanket.

But alas, all I had was the bitter taste of regret and a room that made my office look like a five-star hotel. The pain was bearable, but the thirst remained, a relentless beast that no amount of drool could satiate.

It was like that one time I forgot to eat or sleep for three days straight because I got lost in a One Piece marathon, dissecting my favorite pathetic man, (Sanji) like a culinary masterpiece.

But instead of sizzling pans and the aroma of a perfectly seasoned steak, I was met with the bitter scent of antiseptic. The room was as bland as unsalted porridge, making me crave the smoky haze of a grill or the zesty tang of a freshly squeezed lemon.

The walls were so bare, they could have used a sprinkle of paprika and a dash of creativity. The crib's bars looked like they'd been forged in the depths of a sadist's kitchen, where the only flavor allowed was the metallic tang of despair. I had to admit, if this was a cooking show, it'd be the most bland episode ever aired

God I need some food.

I'd give my left arm for a decent cup of coffee right now, I thought, trying to ignore the pitiful sounds coming from the crib next to me. The room was a prison, the only sound was the incessant crying of my furry twin. I was about to drift off into a pitiful nap when the door swung open with a squeak that sounded like a dying mouse.

In walked Ging, my "father" that this sadistic universe had saddled me with. He looked like he'd just rolled out of bed after a week-long bender, his hair sticking up at all the wrong angles and his clothes looking like they'd been put on with a blindfold.

"What's all the fuss?" he slurred, his eyes half-closed as he stumbled over to the crib. He looked at me, his eyes squinting in the harsh light, and for a moment, I thought he might actually see the fear and anger in my tiny baby face. But no, all he did was pat my head with a hand that smelled faintly of tobacco.

Man if you're going to smoke at least share some with me,my tiny lungs have been cravings the sweet relief of a drag for a while now.

But instead, all I get was a pat on the head from Ging, who probably forgot he had kids until he heard Gon's cries.

Ging leaned over the crib, his eyes bleary and his breath reeking of the kind of whiskey that makes you question your life choices. "Hush now, little one," he murmured, his voice slurred and gravelly. "Your sister's here to keep you company."

Fucking hell, I thought, not bothering to hide the disdain in my gaze. He actually thought I was the quiet, happy twin. If only he knew the mouth on me.

Ignoring Ging's slurred words, I focused on the kitsune's earlier action. Backlash? That furry son of a bitch didn't mention anything about backlash. It's like he handed me a grenade with a smirk and said, "Just don't let go!"

With a grunt, I tried to ignore Ging's presence, turning my tiny head away from him. He was more useless than a chocolate teapot in a desert.

Cursing the furry trickster under my breath, I lay there, my newborn eyes trying to focus on the ceiling. It was like trying to watch paint dry, only the paint was made of sadness and the brush was the universe's middle finger.

But even as I tried to drift off into a blissful nothingness, the cries from the crib next to me were like nails on a chalkboard, grating against my already frayed nerves.

Ging, seemingly oblivious to my silent pleas for death, scooped up Gon, cooing and bouncing him awkwardly. "There, there," he slurred, his furry hands surprisingly gentle as he jostled the bawling mess of a baby.

Fucking hell, he is pathetic.